Carla's Got a Gun
by Noeme
Summary: Carla Donovan and Michelle Connor; a pair of swindling thieves/ con-artist in 1920's England the press likes to call 'The Barbie Bandits' find that notoriety comes at a price. Hunted by police all throughout Europe for suspicion of murder things get risky and they fall low on cash. With no other options they must return to England for what will be their biggest con yet.
1. Roman 'Not so' Holiday

**A/N: This is my attempt at a 'Carchelle' friendship fic for my buddy LoveCarlaConnor. I probably sound like a broken record by now but this is an alternative universe and period piece fic. Carla and Michelle are a pair of bank robbers/ con-artists infamous and bad like 'Bonnie and Clyde'. This fic will mainly be about their many escapades. Hope you all enjoy and thanks for reading :)**

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_**Tagline: This is a story about t****wo girls with one gun. And how when push comes to shove they're not afraid to use it...**_

"_**Bullentin Points…This is the BBC Radio reporting for**_

_**September the 10**__**th**__**, 1928…News…**_

'_**The Barbie Bandit's Strike Again!'**_

… _police say on Saturday the 23 of July the two blondes appropriately named 'the Barbie Bandits' struck for a second time terrorizing the many FI's and Banks of the beautiful Monte Carlo. They made of with more than an estimated $50,000.00 total so far, managing to score their highest payday in the latest robbery with an estimated $30,000.00 carried out in bags. _

_Officials describe the two as sweet on the eyes and so seemingly innocent that tellers often do not see the attacks coming. Both women are described as having blonde hair, medium build, and normal body weight. One teller has even gone into detail as to describe the hypnotizing nature of one of females green emerald eyes. I however must remind the public that no matter how hypnotizing, it does not stop the two women from wrecking havoic and fear on the lives of so many…"_

"Can you turn that obnoxious BBC reporter off? I hate hearing the sound of his voice on the radio…it makes me think of home. And as you know that's the last place I want to think about right now. Give me sunny Rome any day over gloomy London. "

Carla looked up from the table she was sitting at in this extravagant hotel suite. It was a beautiful place to be, Rome. And she wished she would have been able to enjoy every moment of the weather and lavishing surroundings but sadly this was not the case.

She sipped her cup of coffee quietly and took a few drags from her cigarette before flicking it out on the nearby ashtray. Carla wanted to keep her lips pursed shut so she wouldn't boil over because of the slow burning rage forming quickly inside of her. Was Michelle being serious now, was that her only response to this specific news report? Carla's green eyes flickered over newspaper after newspaper placed out in front of her, worrying so much she swore her hair would turn white. They had really messed up this time around and she knew that surrounding herself with newspaper clippings and radio updates was no way to manage the problem. But she had to keep informed and keep up to date with what the police did and did not know. Michelle couldn't care less apparently. She was running around Rome all day getting church tours, going dancing, shopping, and letting men take her spins on their mopeds. Carla wished she could be like Michelle during this difficult period, so carefree and irresponsible just enjoying the fruits of their latest labors. But quickly she shakes her head banishing all thoughts of this nature as she looks at the newspaper headline:

'_**Two Person's of Interest Wanted for questioning in the Disappearance of Scottish Factory Heir Tony Gordon'**_

It was because of Michelle's carelessness, impulsiveness and irresponsibility that they were in this mess to begin with.

"Hey, well at least they got our hair color all wrong," Michelle says once again peering out from the bathroom door and talking to her friend, "I told you those blonde wigs were a good investment."

"Stop joking about it all please and thank you. We have to lay low for a while and figure out our next move. We shouldn't be wasting money on such an extravagant hotel suite. We should be saving our money because who knows when we'll be able to strike out this big again. Not likely with all this media attention, I can tell you that much."

"Oh I don't know, I sort of like the name 'Barbie Bandits' don't you?" says Michelle ignoring Carla completely she flounces out of the bathroom making her way over to the room service tray and helping herself to a few oysters as well as a glass of expensive champagne. She was still wrapped in her towel and her hair dampened from her pampered bubble bath, "I think it has a special ring to it. Quite fitting as we make such a great team of femme fatales."

Carla shots her best friend a scathing look, "I'd much prefer it if the media gave us no nicknames at all. We don't need the notoriety."

There had been a time when Carla thought differently, when she liked living life on the wild side and the lifestyle her and Michelle grew accustomed to, the life of robbing banks and conning rich socialites out of money was enthralling. They had some wild times back in the early days, bedding handsome men, meeting the most interesting of characters they would've probably never met otherwise. And the parties…they were always amazing but most of all, Carla and Michelle just enjoyed one another's company. Carla could only get up to wild antics with Michelle and vice versa but that all changed a few months ago when things got way out of hand swindling a handsome well to do Scottish factory Heir. Now Carla didn't care if they had fun, she just wanted to keep some form of a life particularly one that did not involve living in a jail cell.

"Still, they got our hair color wrong," Michelle winks playfully stuffing her face with some shrimp now. Carla had a feeling Michelle was just acting cold and collected in order to piss her off.

"Not in this one, they didn't," Carla holds up the article on the Scottish heir Tony Gordon, " According to this article many witnesses saw Antony Gordon in the company of 'two raven haired beauties' on the day of his disappearance," Carla was beginning to reach a foul mood. She wished her friend would take this all a bit more seriously.

But Michelle remained unfazed just shrugging her shoulders as she danced on over to her suitcase and pulled out her bra and underwear quickly dropping her towel and slinking into them both effortlessly. She examined her figure in front of the full-length mirror smiling at how wonderful she looked. Carla couldn't fault her as both girls could be rather vain when it came to their appearances. Michelle then reached onto the bed and pick up the two dresses she had lain out proceeding to hold each one up contemplating what to wear.

"I just wished you'd take these things more seriously and by serious I mean not hitting the streets of Rome everyday shopping up a storm. We need to save money Michelle," Carla toned down the anger in her voice a bit hoping that it would ease Michelle up a little and make things easier for her to comply.

"Oh you don't have to worry about money," says Michelle glancing over her shoulder, "Carla darling do you doubt me so easily that you don't think I'd have us covered in some other way?"

Carla's eyes widened. She could see the wheels in her best friends head spinning and she wondered what Michelle was up to now. Carla was always the more sensible and reliable plotter and Michelle's ideas often made her uneasy, "What did you do?" Carla slowly rises from her chair approaching Michelle with apprehension and caution.

"Nothing," Michelle smirks locking her beautiful brown eyes with Carla's in the reflection of the mirror but she was all coy, "Only just secured myself a date with a gorgeous Italian Count …something Borghese or the other. Doesn't matter really because he has a lot of money."

"I don't think that's a good idea. How long is going to take for you to seduce him and convince him you love him enough to get the money? At least a few weeks, we should be on the move not outstaying our welcome in Rome for so long—"

"We need money!" snaps Michelle.

"And whose fault is that?" Carla says throwing her hands in the direction of many of Michelle's latest purchases. There were bags and bags of designer clothes and expensive jewelry, "You're the one who can't keep spending our fifty thousand! I love shopping as much as the next girl, but you out of control."

"Thanks for the talk mother," Michelle says again she didn't care that Carla only had her best intentions at heart. She was set in her ways, spoiled and much more entitled in her actions then Carla ever was. Michelle still had that naïve immaturity to her in so many things but Carla couldn't fault her for that because the two girls upbringings had been so different.

Carla grew up poor in the poorest part of Manchester. Everyday of her childhood had been a struggle just fighting to survive just wondering where her next meal would come from. Finally she had enough of it, her neglectful drunken mother and lazy bastard of a stepfather. She left home at sixteen looking for greener pastures and never looked back. In later years she would regret this action only out of the guilt she bore for having left her younger brother Robert behind.

Michelle's childhood was that of a rich girl. She actually was a 'heiress' of sorts born with a sliver spoon in her mouth and doted on every moment since the she came into this world. Growing up having every person at her beck and call had become so commonplace that she was dealt a great shock on the day she discovered her tears just wouldn't do it anymore when it came to getting what she wanted. Michelle's parents wanted her to marry some older and as she put it a 'completely unattractive man' and in no way was that going to happen. She ran away and to punish her, Michelle's father cut off her access to a hefty inheritance.

The two girls would meet when Carla was under the tutelage of a great con man named Peter Barlow. She was eighteen by this time working at one of the taverns Peter frequented. They became fast friends and on the side learned the tricks of the trade. One night a lost and helpless looking brunette with dark brown eyes entered the pub looking like she had seen a hard night too many to speak of. Carla took pity on the girl who looked about sixteen and had no place in an area like this. Carla quickly offered a room for one night in the flat above. But by the next day the girl ended up staying and she never left afterwards. A great friendship was born and Carla took Michelle under her wing becoming teacher to her in all things to do with conning and surviving in this harsh world. The women tried never to be separate for long periods of time since they truly were a good team. As Peter put it, with Michelle's knack for conversation and charm and Carla's exotic looks the two girls could bring any man to their knees. They were an unstoppable duo. Carla wished she could look back on these past escapades with a great fondness but lately she felt as though she was responsible for creating this 'monster' now in front of her today. It was this unchecked behavior that had caused the murder of Tony Gordon in the first place. Things escalated and got out of hand more quickly then Carla could have ever anticipated. Now she only wished that Peter were around to give her some much needed advice about keeping the protégé Michelle intact, but sadly he was away partaking in other endeavors of a swindling nature.

"We barely have enough American money to survive the next five months! You may think I'm only lecturing you, but I'm just trying to make you understand the seriousness of the situation."

"I told you I've got it covered," says Michelle slipping into a black dress finally and some heels. And then a look came over her face as though she thought she should finally admit to something else, "It's not really a date with that count guy tonight. But I've managed to surveillance him enough over the last few weeks to figure out how he likes to spend his time. He likes many things most especially gambling. I'm going to try catching his eye at the casino today. Will you come with me, I could always use a wing woman?"

"No," says Carla although she knows the two girls could have a lot of fun getting free drinks and having pathetic desperate men fawning over them; she wants Michelle to realize that Carla won't always be there to clean up her messes if something some how goes wrong. Michelle never took ownership and she never even thanked Carla for putting her life on the line when things got out of hand with Tony Gordon. Michelle simply needed to grow up and learn to do some stuff on her own, "No you go alone I'm staying in today."

Michelle looked momentarily stunned even wounded but she quickly hid it all away bringing out her tough attitude, "Fine I'll go alone," she grabs her purse and heads for the door. In a brief second when Carla is not watching she quickly snatches a wad of American money laying out on the side table and stuffs it in her purse, "Don't bother waiting up."

With that Michelle was out and Carla was left to clean up her messages literally as much as figuratively because the girl had left her countless items of purchases strewn about. Huffing with exasperation Carla began her usual tidying up trying to keep her temper in check by reminding herself that Michelle was like her younger sister, inconsiderate and annoying at times but lovable all the same. It was exactly how Peter used treat Carla as well. He'd tidy her messes from time to time choosing his battles but ultimately letting Carla make her own decisions in life. Therefore in this moment, Carla reasoned that she shouldn't feel too guilty about letting Michelle off the hook so quickly. After all every bird must learn to spread their wings and fly. Perhaps Michelle could pull off a whole con without any of Carla's help or assitance. She began to get all misty eyed like mother does when looking fondly at their kid all grownup and proud. _Her Michelle_ was going out on a con job all by herself…

There was a knock at the door that quickly removed Carla from her misty eyed nostalgia. Perhaps it was Michelle; maybe she forgot her door key. This was good if she came back for it because then it showed she was being responsible and considerate as to not knock and wake Carla up in the early hours of the morning. She gingerly made her way forward when the voice of a man on the other end boomed through the door with such ferocity it almost made Carla jump.

"Hotel Concierge! Open up please!"

"What do you want?" says Carla cautiously. She was paranoid ever since the papers started reporting more and more on the Gordon murder and picking up on the 'Barbie Bandits'. She never knew if each day she woke up was her last day of freedom. It was so scary to think of. Carla looked around desperately for the gun Michelle and her shared between them as of recently. It was another example of the inconvenience Michelle put them through; demonstrating yet again that the girl didn't take care of her own things. Carla's gun was nowhere to found which means Michelle must have taken it. Carla sighed as she pressed her body up against the door, her heart pounding so hard and her breath so erratic it would be no surprise if the man on the other end heard every element of her body at work. It all looked legitimate, the man she recognized from the front lobby was indeed the concierge.

"I must talk to you about an important manner but ask that you open up the door first so we can talk face to face."

This seemed reasonable enough and she could always deck him in the face and do straight for the jugular if things went wrong. Opening the door she was met by the face of a stern Italian man. He meant business, whatever this all was about, "What seems to be the problem?" Carla inquired making sure to keep him outside where she could watch him closely and feel safe. She flashed him her loveliest smile though and fluttered her eyelashes sighing on the inside at this dreary work; he wasn't even attractive.

"You're room," he says in a matter of fact tone, "You haven't paid for it in days. The hotel manager gave an extension—"

"Hold on, hold on," Carla says putting her hand up in the mans face and cutting him off, "This must be some sort of mistake. I left my sister in charge of the—" she floundered off…Michelle! She probably forgot to pay the bill. Ridiculous, how could she forget to pay the bill?"

The hotel worker paid her mortified expression no mind as he continued on talking, "Yes, is your sister a 'Miss Moira de Whitney'?" That was one of Michelle's many aliases. Carla nodded her head, "And you're a Miss Gloria de Whitney' I take it?"

"Yes," says Carla laughing to herself at the stupidity of the names. But people fell for anything these days, "That's us and that's me. Look why don't I just clear this all up right now and give you the money. I can give it to you in cash…make it worth you're while…maybe even a little extra tip," Carla winked and now allowed the man to step inside as she reached for her purse. Upon opening it though she soon found that her wallet virtually had nothing but the cheque book inside. But that was no matter because she remember she had left a decent amount of cash on the table right next to the door. Carla could just give that to him, that would work, the money on the table next to the door…**the money was no longer there.** Silently she cursed Michelle again. Back to the cheque book. She hated using cheques because of the paper trails they left but she'd just have to risk it this time around, " To whom do I make it out to?" Carla asks pressing her pen down on the paper just ready to get this all over with.

The Hotel worker shook his head a solemn 'no' glaring at her he spites out, "All previous cheques under yours and Moira de Whitney's name have bounced I'm afraid. I think that if you have no cash to pay for the room you shall vacate the premises immediately—"

"This is ridiculous," snaps Carla she could not believe her ears. How the hell could their joint account already be cleared? What the hell did Michelle blow it all on? "Please sir if we could just come to some arrangement—" she wanted to up the sex appeal and hope the seduction worked. But man simply seemed to have no time for that. He was a hard one to crack, with a face as cold as stone. She decided he must not be normal if he didn't fall for her tricks so easily. Well F- him, she decided.

Snapping his fingers he said, "I thought you might say something like that which is why I've gotten the polizia," Two police officers appeared on either side of the door having had listened the whole time they had been hiding up against the hallway walls, "There she is polizia! " he points his fingers in the most dramatic of fashions, "That's one of the ladies who has been defrauding my bosses hotel."

Carla was absolutely horrified because all her worst fears were coming true. In her opinion she was too beautiful and delicate for jail. She deserved a charmed life and like hell she'd let anyone but her in a cell for the rest of her days, no way in hell. But she had no weapons in which to fight them off and she may be vain about her living conditions but she wasn't crazy. Carla couldn't defeat three men without a gun at least to get the job done.

"Good enough for now," says one officer stepping forward, "We'll worry about getting the other one as soon as."

"She can't have gone very far. Possibly I have my suspicions she may be hiding in this very room right now," the hotel worker informs the police officers.

"I'll take a look," says one of the officers brushing past Carla as the other takes it upon himself to handcuff her. She wouldn't go down without a fight even if they dragged her to jail she'd fine some guard to trick into letting her out, as men were rather stupid when it came to her feminine wilds. But for now she'd buy Michelle sometime, never would she give up the location of her best friend lounging around in the hotel casino at this very moment. She'd find someone who could bail her out, maybe she could reach Peter in Spain and he could send one of his friends.

So with this reasoning she decided to calm down and not let her emotions get the better of her. The point being she wasn't going to shed a tear. Carla was a classy lady and classy women went down looking fabulous and dignified to the end.

"I want some red lipstick," she demands. The one officer looks at her as though she is crazy but Carla stands her ground. She will through a bitch fit if they drag her out without any makeup on to accent her gorgeous features and have the men at the station fawning over her. How else could her plan work.. She needed that lip stick, " As well I need to but on some pearls and a fur coat," yes, she thought if these bastards were taking her to a jail cell to sit for hours on end she better look damn good doing it. That's how she rolled and that's how Michelle rolled too. Elegant and classy to the end…

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The man watched in mild curiosity for what seemed like many hours staring at the room number of that particular apartment suite. He had watched as the policemen arrive and good then because if he had been any later who knows how things may have turned out. He didn't care how much time it took, he just wanted to be ready. He heard tip bits of the conversation confirming what he knew all along to be true; she was in danger…no surprise there. After what seems like days the door opens and an elegant raven-haired beauty with a such captivating and piercing green eyes emerges being escorted by two police men down the long stretch of hallway. He can't help but smirk at the audacity she showed in wearing that expensive fur coat, with her travelling hat and lovely red lipstick, but that was just his_ Carla_ wasn't it?

The policemen, Carla, and the hotel employee take no notice as they briefly brush paths with a fairly short blonde cleaning lady along the way, the lady pushing her cart down the hall. He grins looking at his pocket watch, she just on time. Out of sight and out of mind, he watches as the blonde woman nervous with the passing encounter quickly composes herself and keeps on going until she stops in front of the same door just recently vacated. Taking one last look over her shoulder just make sure no one else is coming she fumbles in her pockets retrieving a door key. And like she senses his presence and knows where to look, her brown eyes quickly come into contact with his. A smile forms on her lips and all the nervousness evaporates. He nods his head in encouragement sending a silent signal for her to remember what they talked about and to go on ahead. The woman looks away and with one last deep breath opens the door and quickly pushes the cart inside disappearing behind it. Like they talked about, she must be efficient and quick. Not just for Carla's sake, but for all of their sakes.

"Be quick Leanne," he whispers hoping that she knows he's with her in spirit. Coming up of the shadows and adjusting his suite jacket he strides down the hall.

Glancing at his watch one last time he made the appropriate calculations and estimation as to how long it should take for Leanne to clear the room before more cops arrive to clear it out. He estimated how long it should take to survey the casino room and take Michelle discreetly away before law enforcement took over the place looking for her. Twenty-five minutes it what he came up with and it would take a miracle to do just that as he was not as young as he used to be. Those girls were lucky to have him always keeping an eye on them and making sure they didn't get into any trouble. Once in awhile it was important to let the ones you cared about sink and swim in order to learn a lesson. And normally he would have done but in this situation things had not entirely been Carla's fault. Therefore he was willing to put aside the added risk and take a chance. He could perform miracles because he after all, the great Peter Barlow was all heart.

Down the hallway he strolled calm and collected and ready to roll, the sound of the ticking watch was his call to the dance floor and boy was he ready to dance. The greatest con-man in all of Britain now had exactly twenty four minutes to rescue who he must.

"Michelle Connor, here I come."


	2. The Great Escape

**A/N: I apologize if this chapter is a bit too long but I hope this update was worth the wait. Thank you for all the positive responses I received for the first chapter they were awesome to read. Thank you as always for reading :)**

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A world where everything was off limits was a world were everything was much more fun. Michelle lived by these words, she lived by many words actually usually words exploring the more chaotic things of her nature. She had learned long ago that honesty was not a word she wished to live by nor was it in her nature. But like a chameleon she could emulate most things that people considered worthy or admiral and intimidation was definitely the thing she valued most as an asset. Michelle had learned this from the best faker in the world, which surprisingly wasn't the infamous con man Peter Barlow, or her dear friend Carla Donovan. No, such traits of flattery and cunning were well learnt in her upbringing by the poisonous leech of a human being she called 'mother'.

So good was Helen Connor at deceiving people it took Michelle sixteen years of her life to learn what exactly a vile vicious little trollop her mother truly was. In fact that whole world in which she lived in was a vicious place. She had grown up in such a bubble, where everyone was playing a part throwing about his or her wealth an effort to conceal the panic so often felt and stop anyone from ever questioning the truth. Everyone was always so certain about the future and obsessed with being right. Michelle's mother was so concerned with the trivial life existing in their glided cage that every waking moment was devoted to taking down anyone who posed a threat. Betrayal was a constant stable of her upbringing; about catching friends in lies before they caught you. It was hypocrisy at its finest; no one willing to admit that almost everyone, everywhere was faking it. The denial was so poisonous that Michelle had not other choice but to escape before the whole situation completely destroyed her. Did she sometimes miss her brothers? Sure, but Michelle did not allow herself to dwell on such things for longer then was necessary.

She regretted neither of the two robberies committed, the accidental murder, or the various heists and cons she participated in over years. She most definitely did not regret pulling a 'runaway bride' either. In her opinion she was doing all those suckers a favor. Every time one pathetic man after another was taken by surprise and cried about it, Michelle let it be it known that she did not deceive people anymore then they wanted to be deceived. So when people threw up their hands in despair and cried 'why me?' she gave a little reminder: Everyone, everywhere was faking 'it' and If everyone was faking 'it', maybe there was no 'it' after all. Maybe we were all guilty of just making 'it' up as we go along. And who could be blamed for the things, which they could not control? Michelle couldn't be bothered with those who ended tangled up in her web of deceit. She was just 'going along' like everyone else. She could have stayed around for that disgusting engagement forced upon her and live with all the money in the world. But the trade off came with the assumption the money didn't exist elsewhere when it clearly did. Michelle and Carla were living the dream with lots and lots of money and none of it was her fathers, so she didn't him for anything. As for Tony Gordon, he deserved that gunshot and regardless of what Carla thought about Michelle he would have ruined them. He had been much too difficult to deceive in the end.

Her shoes now glided across the tiled floor of the lobby and then onto the expensive carpet leading into the casino. Each step was taking with great care because someone was always sure to be watching, who was she kidding someone was always watching…every gentleman in the room had eyes only for her, stopped dead in their tracks as was customary practically breathing her in. If Carla could see this now, Michelle was sure they'd have a good laugh. But Carla was being no fun right now, so it was her own loss. Holding her clutch purse Michelle smirks only a teensy tiny bit before striding over to the poker table; a game was already in progress

"Guess who my eyes have spied, gentleman?" says one the handsome men with dark brown hair seated at the table smoking a cigar, "Aliena Calder has graced us with her presence alas."

Aliena Calder was the alias Michelle went by whilst socializing with the casino set. She didn't want to be knowing as Moira de Whitney downstairs but only when signing those hotel cheques. She thought herself to be something smart.

"We were beginning to worry Miss Calder," says another gentleman at the table rising quickly to pull out a chair but working up a charm all the same, "We thought you might have abandoned us for the evening and that would've been a real tragedy since you always manage to light the room."

"Oh well you know me darling," Michelle says drawing in all the attention and loving every minute of it, "You know the party doesn't truly start until I get here." She winks at another one of her newfound friends working the table with her natural banter and effortless poise, "Now I hope you gentlemen didn't work up a sweat with out me…all work and no play."

"We always seem to forget ourselves without you. Luckily we have you around to point us in the right direction."

Michelle let out one laugh after another. It was one of the most enchanting features of her personality, somewhat genuine and because it was one of the most real things about this built up façade and persona it was probably what managed to engage men to her. Men could be resistant about many things, but not her laugh or her gentle touch. She skillfully placed her delicate fingers on the shoulder of a young American sitting next to her working up a playful yet alluring massage, "What are the stakes then?" Easy pickings she thought. It was time to work this card game in her favor as per usual. She took a quick glance at the American's cards before innocently proclaiming, "That's a lovely hand you've got there."

"No looking Miss. It's cheating—"

"Aww you are no fun!" she muses, "I like a good 'cheat' now and again," she winks watching as he turns a bit red trying to decipher all her innuendo's like pathetic men often did. Taking a moment to let the supposed offer sink in she reaches for cigarette pack slowly dragging one out and putting it to her lips. The man was in such a daze he didn't notice her steal his lighter and concealing it quickly in her pocket. This was the moment to really work her magic with her hypnotic voice, "Be an angel and light me one."

It takes the gentleman a moment because he is very much focused on her lips before he fumbles stumbling about to find his lighter. It seems to be such a great honor for him to have the job, just too bad he'll never find it. Michelle was laughing secretly on inside because whilst he flapping about like a fish looking his pathetic lighter she slowly reached into the jacket hung about the back of her chair quickly retrieving his wallet and sliding it into her waiting purse. He was sweating profusely embarrassed that he could not find his lighter and Michelle quickly slid it back onto to the edge of table right near his elbow. The man knocked it to the floor

"Oh look," Michelle says pointing at the floor, "I think your elbow just pushed it to the ground."

"I feel so foolish now," he laughs, " It must have been on this table the whole time," he picked it up finally giving Michelle a light and getting a demure smile in return.

"You're so lovely," she says in her hypnotic voice, "And so handsome…when did you get so handsome?" Again she went back to playing his shoulder, slowly breaking down his defenses.

"We've only just met—"

"Really?" says Michelle playing dumb, "Well it must be those suits all you gentlemen wear. I swear it makes so many of you look all the same. But those eyes of yours, they're so different I would remember those eyes anywhere. We have definitely met before. I am certain of it," another flutter of the eyelashes Michelle was now eyeing his watch. It looked very expensive, now if she could get only get it off his lovely wrist.

"You English birds are really something else aren't you?" he says enjoying the flirting.

"There's only 'one' me darling," Michelle's brain is rummaging through all the ways she could go for the watch. She wasn't skilled like Peter or Carla; they could have that watch off in a matter of seconds. With them all it took was a hug and a 'slide and slip'. But Michelle wasn't sure if she should risk it. It was so tempting and could probably get her and Carla a whole wad of cash and finally stop her mentor from yapping about Michelle's irresponsibility every second. Perhaps if she got him drunk and took him in the direction of the bathroom later it would easier to nick the watch. For now she'd stick to lathering him up with empty compliments, making him feel like the only man in the room and that she actually cared about his poker game, "Focus on your hand darling."

Poker was much more fun when she actually playing it. Although she didn't mind charming the men with her advice and letting them fawn all over her with total disregard for the rules, Michelle felt restless just sitting around; especially this evening when she should be on the prowl keeping her eyes out for that rich Italian Count. He was supposed to be her and Carla's next project and he frequented the casino daily yet tonight he was nowhere to be found. It was so infuriating and not wanting to upset the men at her table with questions about him that could give way to jealously, she decided to put her ears to good use and see if any of the tables nearby where gossiping or mentioning the high profiled Count in any way. Glancing quickly over at the table behind her she recognized some people usually seen in the company of the rich Count, it was time to eavesdrop away. But little did Michelle know she would hear much more beneficial and interesting things.

"—I really don't see what all the fuss is about regarding these 'Barbie Bandits' or whatever you want to call them. The papers are not going to stop me from enjoying one last stop in Monte Carlo, I tell you that much! I love my vacations in Monaco and not one single bloody bank robber is going to stop me from having fun with my money," says a man maybe his early forties. He was a rather grouchy sort, not fine company at all Michelle thought.

"Well I for one think it's all rather exciting," says a younger woman next to him, "A friend of a friend in banking has some insider info—"

Michelle adjusted her ears glancing over at the American man sitting next to her. It was good that his attention had drifted back to game and better for her because she wouldn't have to waste any more energy at the moment trying to entertain him. For now the expensive watch could wait and as she had already gotten his wallet; this night wouldn't be a complete waste after all. Right now Michelle just wanted to figure out what and how much people knew about her and Carla's escapades. In a way it was sort of exciting to hear people throwing theories about, taking about her like she actually mattered because growing up she had only ever been made to feel was insignificant. These flighty gossiping hags fed her ego so to speak.

The woman continues, "He says... the banker friend of a friend that apparently these 'Barbie Bandits' aren't even really gorgeous. Apparently they look like a bunch of gorgons and this whole 'Barbie' thing is just a pathetic attempt by the newspapers to make more sales."

"Make sense," agrees one of her friends sitting next to her.

"Well of course," drawls another man raising eyebrows like an insufferable snob, "Everything in life is about profit. But's you've got it wrong because it's not the papers behind it at all. In fact I have a high official friend in the government and he tells me that the 'Barbie Bandits' is just a bunch of tosh orchestrated by the powerful Rothschild banking family. They rob their own banks so that we'll all be focused on finding more ways to protect our money and in all the hysteria they'll magically offer up a solution. Naturally the solution will be safer vault's and we'll all be fools clamouring about paying higher interest just to put our money in them."

"Now I'm no expert but I think these 'Barbie Bandit's are actually government employees. They rob so sophisticatedly and no one stops them that I feel the banks must have been given direct orders from some higher power to let them go on their merry way. And of course the government is stashing the money away for war. It's a perfect distraction because the government wants a diversion from talk of war and so what better way but to keep war out of the paper then with stories about two attractive robbers. Like I said before I'm no expert but it just a feeling I have."

"Well it's a stupid feeling," snaps yet another person at the table, " If there is a war coming up then I must be thick because last time I checked we just finished 'the war to end all wars 'eleven years ago! And as for the government, it doesn't have to steal money it already has access to—"

"—I still say they're ugly! The 'Barbie Bandits' are a bunch of vile ugly women. Mark my words when this all over, they'll be caught out as looking nothing like beautiful women that the press made them out to be. Oh and they'll be boring church going little housewives just because it will it all the more scandalous and horrific."

Michelle could only smirk thinking, where did these people get such ridiculous ideas? They were all much too convoluted and complicated as well down right stupid but the members sitting at that table just couldn't help themselves. There was an incessant need to top the next person and their theories which had ideas more grandiose and idiotic than the last. If only Carla had been here tonight, she'd be put her friend to ease finally with the knowledge that they truly had nothing to worry about. With the police all across Europe relying on the people, they wouldn't get far with tips like these. There was nothing to sweat about except the money problem, and for now Michelle had solved it temporarily by snatching the young American's wallet. But still she wanted the bloody rich Count. Where the hell was he anyways? Michelle's eyes showered the room looking casually for her prey. Maybe if she got up and walked amongst the tables she'd be able to find him. The poker game and all the gentlemen involved in it had lost her interest long ago anyways. They had just served as practice of sorts all week for what was to be the bigger and better prize. And it was time to distance herself from the table just incase the man noticed his wallet missing sooner than later.

"Excuse me gentlemen but I'm afraid I've only just remembered I have other engagements this evening," sliding out of her chair she picks up the cigarette pack popping it in her purse right on top of the stolen wallet before smirking at the American, "For safe keeping of course," she offers as an explanation. It wasn't a very good one that she would have almost done better not give him any explanation at all. But it was so funny to her how people would accept anything you told them just because of how she looked and how they perceived her to be. It was exactly like the old man who her parents wanted to forced her into marrying had behaved. He was practically decrepit and Michelle had been forced to listen countless times to how perfect she was for him because she was so beautiful. That experience which forced her to runaway made Michelle grow to resent the shallowness of males. And she hoped the American considered this a lesson learnt once he discovered his money missing and she long gone; that it was never wise to judge a book by it's cover. He'd get everything he deserved just like all the other stupid useless males ever present in this world.

Michelle decided she wanted to have some fun. Maybe it was time to go back to her hotel room and wave the wallet around in front of Carla's face and coax her into a night out on the town. Hell she still hadn't even touched the money she stole off of the side table earlier on so they could have extras. So caught in in her own world and ready to celebrate this small victory Michelle helped herself to some champagne off the tray of a passerby waiter, downing it halfway before she did a double take and almost choked.

"Now that's no way to drink champagne, now is it? I would have thought Carla taught you better."

"Peter Barlow," Michelle whispers although his name went without saying. He wasn't a man who required an introduction by any means. Still she can't believe her eyes. The greatest con man in all of Britain of not the world was smirking at her with his beautiful sensual brown eyes. The wait staff uniform could not take away from any of his handsome features in fact it only amplified them, "Well I'll be damned. I thought you were messing about in Spain, last we heard."

"Well you know me darling I can never stay in one place for too long. This lifestyle doesn't call for it anyways you know better than most that I get incredibly bored."

Michelle wondered if Carla knew Peter was here. If she didn't Michelle couldn't wait to see the look of glee on Carla's face when they reunited. Carla could be hard and cold towards many people but when it came to Peter she was always reduced to mush. It was no surprise really, since the two had been lovers once.

"I would like to spend time chatting about Spain and all that jazz but it would be quite strange for a wait staff like myself and a socialite like you to be carrying on such a long social visit; and I'm afraid this is anything but a social visit. So listen carefully."

"Alright," says Michelle taking aback by his abrupt change and manner of his tone, "What's wrong? Do you need Carla for a job? Me?"

"Walk with me," he says grabbing the empty flute from her hand and passing another one, "Follow me as I go to the back near the kitchens." Michelle fell into step behind him keeping her distance as he made his way to back near the hallway leading to the area of the kitchens.

"What's this all about then?" Michelle says starting to worry but at the same time developing a sinking suspicion that Carla had told on her old lover and mentor about the murder of Tony Gordon and now Peter was here to set her straight. The thought of this was enough to create a slow burn in the pit of her stomach.

"Carla's been arrested," he says curtly sitting his tray down on a nearby table fiddling around with the glasses pretending to work, "Not going to get into the details at the moment. I just need you to listen; the police will be storming this place any moment now looking for you so we need to get out of here."

"Oh my god," Michelle panics. She hoped that Carla was alright and her mind was racing just wondering what the hell happened. Perhaps people had recognized them as the infamous 'Barbie Bandits' after all.

"Don't be dramatic," Peter shrugs off the white coat that is apart of his fake waiter uniform handing it to her, "Hold this. Now here's what we're going to do; we're going to focus on the entrance door."

"Why?!" snaps Michelle, "Why don't we just leave now?" She didn't want to stand around looking at anything or anyone she just wanted to bolt.

"Staff will most likely on high alert for anyone leaving the casino just moments before the police are expected. Chances are it will put you on their radar even more if we try to leave. So it's not a questioning of leaving if ever but leaving at the right time."

"So why are we looking at the entrance for?" Michelle asks impatient and anxious with this whole ordeal. She had been enjoying Rome so much it broke her heart to think she'd be leaving it all behind so soon.

"Our signal," Peter stares her down warning her not to pout anymore, "Roll that up into a ball," he says nodding at the jacket. Michelle does as she is told because in all honesty she has always been a bit of scared of Peter. He could be so charming and then switch just like that leaving no doubt there that he could do horrible things to people when required of him and not give it any of his actions a second thought. Basically he was not the type of man anyone wanted to cross.

"You know my freedom is at stake here! I'm walking on pins and needles—"

"She's here," Peter says forcing Michelle to look hitting her arm.

Michelle looked up to see a beautiful woman with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes walking into the casino wearing the most elaborate of furs and expensive jewelry she had ever seeing. It seemed like the woman had the whole casinos attention with her obivious display wealth contained in that ridiculous over the top getup.

"Who is she?"

"Never you mind. Her arrival just a cue that the police will be here in," he looks down at his pocket watch, "5-4-3-2-1…"

Michelle wanted to ask how he could be so certain of all this. Or how he even knew about Carla's arrest to begin with? Should she even trust that he was telling the truth or was this just some plot devised by him and Carla to scare her? But before she even get a word out voicing these concerns the doors of Casino flew open with police officers storming in and causing alarm amongst everyone. She had to laugh at how Peter just seemed to know things and then she realized it was pointless to ask because the answer laid in the fact that he was just Peter the greatest con man in all the world and one did not simply ask question about his methods.

"Attention! Attention guests of this hotel casino we are looking for a Miss Moira de Whitney! Have you heard of or seen a woman by this name?! She is described as dark haired brunette—"

"Oh my goodness," Michelle whispers freaking all the more as the police start canvasing the front of the room holding out composite sketches which she has no way of knowing whether they depicted her accurately or not since her eye sight was beginning to blur under all the stress. However Peter held his grip on her firmly staring at that damn blonde woman and Michelle just wanted to know why they weren't leaving already. She tried to move away towards the hallway that would lead to the kitchen exit but he held her place.

"Watch the blonde lady."

"Why? For heavens sake Peter," she spouts off trying her best to control her voice in hushed tones, "My freedom is at stake here! Stop lounging around watching stupid women in tacky fur coats and gaudy jewelry!"

He ignored her outburst though keeping his eye on the blonde women until Michelle finally stopped pouting and realized she should do the same because they weren't leaving until she did. She saw the woman with brown eyes, blonde hair, draped in furs and expensive jewelry circling the room a few times before making her way along the front of the room, near where the tile led out into the lobby. She was clutching a fine purse as well which she proceeded to open ever so discreetly and whilst people were clamoring under police interrogation she opened it pulling out a vile full of clear liquid. It was only a matter of seconds, that's how fast she was, before the lady did the classic 'slip and fall' in the water she had just poured taking a fall on the tile floor and screaming out in a dramatic voice which commanded everyone's attention. Immediately all eyes were on her, people curious to see what had happened and others rushing to help, and her just putting on the biggest performance in theatrics ever witnessed threatening to sue the hotel.

"Oh my goodness! The pain, the pain! Oh it hurts, God almighty! There will be hell to pay for this!"

"Miss, let me have a look," says a hotel staffer, "Perhaps it's just a little sprang."

"I'll show you a sprang!" she takes her clutch whacking the staffer across the head with it before collapsing into a fit of tears, " Do you know who I am?! I will sue this hotel, I will suck it dry for such an insensitive remark. There will be blood! Take no prisoners! I'm bloody rich and damn well important so don't you forget it fool! Police! POLICE—"

"That's my girl," says Peter grinning at the scene for what seems like an eternity with nothing but the upmost respect and admiration for the lady before switching back to his serious face, "Alright distraction phase is over and all hotel staffers and police are busy looking after her. Now we can escape with no one watching," he grabs Michelle's hand quickly dragging her through the nearby door and making the long run down hallway connecting to the kitchens.

"Who was that girl?" Michelle demands to know because for some reason it was bugging her not to know and she was very territorial of Peter out of respect for Carla.

"No one you know," Peter says not looking at her once as he drags her along, "That coat you have rolled up, stuff it up your dress please and quickly." They were nearing the kitchens

"Why?" Michelle is annoyed

"Because I told you too. Don't test me right now."

"Fine," she took the rolled up coat and with Peter's back turned away for a brief moment stuff it up her dress.

"You're my pregnant wife and I need to get you out here before the baby comes…it's the story we're going to sell to cook staff. I hope your good a faking."

"You know I am," Michelle says rather smugly, "Fake it till you make it."

"Hmmm," says Peter making a study of her, "I was afraid you might say that. Unfortunately we're no position to fake it in the way you are accustomed too when your freedom depends on it. Plus unlike Carla you can be rather campy at times and it's not very convincing."

"Not true!" Michelle shouts like petulant child. He always put Carla up on a pedestal whilst knocking her, Michelle down.

"Not arguing with you," he says again with little patience, "It's a fact. Now stand still for a moment.

Michelle did as she was told and out of nowhere she went plummeting to the ground in pain, "Oww!" Peter had hit her on the back with some sort of blunt object and the feeling was so shocking, so excruciating she was unable to fight back the tears, "Why did you do that for?!"

"Not risking the 'faking it until you make it' today, i'm afraid. Now cry a bit louder and put some more life into it. I wanna believe the pain"

"I hate you!"

"I love you too darling!"

The door to the cooks kitchen opened with a staff members head peaking out to see what all the commotion was about. Peter quickly kicked whatever he had used to hit Michelle with to the side smirking as he fell to her level and cradled her trying to prop her and putting on the act like he was having quite the struggle.

"What is going on here?" says the cook, "You two can't be back here. This area is for staff only!"

"Please sir," says Peter putting on water works of his own and gesturing to Michelle's stomach, "My wife is having problems. I'm almost certain it's to do with the baby. I need to get her out of here but the police are not letting people through out front. Can you help us? Please?"

"Yes, please help us," Michelle says trying to sniff back tears but it was no use. Peter had really hit her back so hard and so out of the blue and she was still suffering from the shock because she never would have believe he'd do something like that to her. The cook moved by such a pitiful state quickly rushed over to offer his assistance shouting back out for some other cooks still in the kitchen to come and help. They began to slowly lift Michelle off the ground and Peter made sure there hands went nowhere near the stomach area.

"That's right Sarah," Peter says pulling another faux name out of nowhere, " Everything is going to be alright." Michelle wanted to give him the middle finger in response but resisted opting to take the higher road this time around. They made it into the kitchen where two of the cooks helped Michelle get settled in a chair while the third offered to help Peter fetch his car and bring it around the back.

All Michelle had to do was keep on crying and god did she cry like there was no tomorrow. She could be quite the drama queen all on her own but the added pain just upped the theatrics. It got her some extra sympathy and more fawning so it was totally worth it. Within minutes she was being helped out of the back door into a comfy little two seater. Everything was a blur because her eyes were wet and clouded with tears. But she vowed that when this was all over and they were out of sight Michelle was going to slap Peter silly.

"What's the best way to get out of here and avoid the police holding us up?" says Peter putting on the charm and sympathy with the cook, "I just don't want anything to happen to our precious baby."

"No problem—" The cook gave Peter an alternative route and like lighting they were on their way heading god knows where.

"I could kill you for that!" Michelle finally spits out as they cruise along the roads, "You didn't have to hit me you know!"

"Not crying like a baby anymore, are we?" says Peter holding onto the steering wheel of the car with one hand while running his fingers through his thick black hair with the other, "I expect only the most authentic performances from my pupils."

"Oh to hell with you," Michelle thrashes about hysterically. She was just so angry and wanted it to be known, "And thanks for keeping me on pins and needles just waiting to leave the actual casino! I'm sure you got a good little laugh out of just watching me squirm."

"Someone ought to teach you a lesson about taking the things your friends do for you for granted. So if it means you have to squirm for a few minutes now and again then it's worth it."

"What are you on about?!"

"Two words: Tony Gordon," Peter snaps, "Don't act so surprise young lady! I know everything about that. What were you thinking?"

"Stupid Carla!" Michelle rages picking up a random bottle sitting in between them and throwing on the floor, " I told her not to tell!"

"Unfortunately for you I have access to the newspapers and the BBC radio! I keep up to date on my news it would stupid to not do otherwise. And if I understand correctly Carla put her life on the line for you with that Factory Heir! Lucky for you that nobody is perfect but don't you go around trying to act like you can never do any wrong!"

"I committed the perfect murder Peter Barlow!" Michelle shouts back. They often got in to immature shouting matches with Carla having to come between them and keep the peace. Too bad she wasn't around for this one because if Michelle could she ram this car off into a ditch just to spite him in childish anger. Peter just made her so unreasonable sometimes and she acted irrational because she once had a crush on him when she had first met Carla.

"Like hell you did, you little brat!"

"I did Peter Barlow, I committed the perfect murder. Don't be jealous because you never have done before."

"Oh you are such a little brat. I don't know how Carla puts up with you. Maybe you need a good day in jail to set you straight lady. Oh who am I kidding, you're no lady because being a lady would require you actually have some class which you clearly don't."

Michelle was pissed. Peter was always such a mean person when it came to protecting Carla and clearly she had spilled the beans about their involvement in Tony Gordon's murder; but it was obvious he was only hearing one side of the story. He shouldn't judge until he heard the whole thing. But then again this all just led back to Peter and Carla's preoccupation with jumping down her throat about every little thing. They could just never cut her some slack and quite frankly Michelle was convinced they were a little jealous that they couldn't live life like her, without any hang ups and being completely free. Michelle wanted a limitless life and would apologize to no one because they didn't have any idea what it was like to live like in glided cage.

"Shut up Peter," snaps Michelle she had decided his opinions no longer mattered anymore.

"Look," he says glancing at her and softening up a bit, "It is time for you to grow up. That little stunt you pulled with the cheques and running through all that money so quickly is not good. The thing about swindling is that when you do it, you have to do it well and make your profits last a while. No one wants to be keeping up such an active and high profile especially people in your position right now. You've got two major headlines concerning your and Carla's crimes right now."

Michelle was feeling like absolute crap again. Why couldn't she return to her blissful days of shopping just shoving the consequences on the back burner for the time being? She didn't really want to think about the horrible thing that happened with Tony Gordon and there was no way Peter would ever understand how things got so out of control anyways. She'd rather deflect from the seriousness of the situation than voice the betrayal she felt from Carla's camp for ever telling him what was supposed to be their secret to begin with, "You know what they say Peter, you're nobody until you're talked about."

"That's not the path to maturity I was hoping for but it's a start...maybe. Just promise me you'll consider how your screw ups reflect on Carla in the future, okay?"

"Is that all?" Michelle says curtly hoping the lecture about her selfishness was over now because if it wasn't she was just going to drone him out.

"Yes," Peter says relaxing a bit and warming up to Michelle once more, "You know I love you Michelle. You're my girl. A spoilt, selfish, poor little rich girl but my girl all the same."

Michelle couldn't help but smile reluctantly at his warmth. Peter's opinion of her mattered almost as much as Carla's did and she hated for him to think anything negative about her. But she still wished both him and Carla would just accept that this was her nature and regardless of what they thought she wasn't going to change it for anyone ever "Speaking of girls, who's that blonde woman you were mooning over? The one with the layers of furs and perfect 'slip and fall'. Is she some new protégé of yours? Carla won't be happy to hear of this."

"That was quite the performance she put on, wasn't it?" Peter says smirking, "And I don't see why it should be a problem for Carla now. We're strictly 'friends' these days and need I remind you it whose decision it was to keep that way."

"Whatever. I have no time to regale myself in tales of your and Carla's complicated love life. But she is my best friend so you better be straight with me Peter… Protégé or girlfriend? Girlfriend or protégé? Or maybe a possibility of both?" Michelle was enjoying the teasing him in her sing-song voice as it had a long history of driving him mad. But everything she did to push his buttons was all in good fun, "The possibilities are endless with the infamous Peter Barlow."

Peter just grinned for a while blushing a bit before finally making up his mind to speak. Giving her a shifty sideways glance he says, "Replace 'girlfriend' with 'wife' and then we have a possible answer."

"You're joking!" says Michelle surprised by the news, " You have a wife Peter?!"

"For about a month now," Peter smirks, "We've only known each other for about three months and it was rather impulsive but I really do think she's the one."

"Remind me who needs to grow up next time we a serious sit down," Michelle raises her eyebrows. She rather shocked by this news downright floored even because the words 'marriage', 'wife', and most especially 'commitment' did not go with the likes of Peter Barlow, not ever. "But that's impossible."

"Honest Michelle, it's true," he flashes his wedding band before putting all fingers back on the steering wheel.

"But you can't be tamed! That's impossible—"

"Enough," Peter says throwing up a hand to silence her, "We're not talking about my relationship anymore."

"But does Carla know? I mean did you tell her in any of the correspondence spent bashing me," Michelle had to add that she couldn't help herself. "What's her name then?" Michelle still believe he was being serious. But the wedding ring was there as clear as day, "It's not a con is it? She's not rich girl with a whole lot of money tucked away?"

" No," he says rather sternly before whispering, "Leanne," he whispers focusing on the road. Michelle caught the flightiness in his breath as he utter her name, "Leanne Battersby is the name."

This was not good and because Michelle hadn't nothing nice to say at the moment she opted not to say anything at all. But she did feel so sorry for Carla and thought Peter was an absolute jerk and attention seeker pulling crap like this They sat in silence for a while as car drove down the road and Michelle noticed that they seemed to be leaving the center of the city in the opposite direction of the police headquarters.

" Wait, I thought we were going to rescue Carla?"

"Not until I put you somewhere safe. Wouldn't make much sense rescuing you only to deliver straight into the clutches of law enforcement, now would it?"

"I suppose not." Perhaps it was good for her to have a few hours away from Carla anyways. It would give her ample amount of time to practice her 'poker face' once her best friend came storming about asking if she had known Peter had went and gotten himself hitched and what not. It was bound to create a whole bunch of drama and Michelle would have Carla's back in a fight if things went to blows with his new blonde trollop. But for now Michelle would just play dumb because she couldn't face Carla at the moment if this information just happen to blow up. Then she, Michelle would find herself in a jail cell right next to Carla both girls nursing bloody knuckles in the name of Peter Barlow. He was so not worth all that trouble right now. For the time being Michelle would deal with intruders into their circle like she often did, with her second best friend in the whole world 'passive aggressiveness', followed by her third best friend which was 'smug bitch' that was the only way to get rid of vicious little trollop like that Leanne woman.

"I wonder how my Leanne is holding up and our Carla?"

He got the death stare then. How dare he call Leanne his 'my' anything. This was not acceptable at all. Right then and there she decided that no matter what for sake of Carla she hated Leanne whatever her last name was with all her heart.

"Why are you looking at me like that for?" says Peter caught off guard.

"No reason," says Michelle carefully rearranging her face to reflect that of an innocent angel whilst on the inside plotting Leanne's doom like a gleeful devil. She'd make sure to have that trollop running for the hills in no time and making things go back to how they were and always should be; her and Carla getting themselves into messes and Peter coming to the rescue sorta of like he was now. Marriage just complicated things and Michelle was not willing to share Peter with anyone especially of Carla started crying over him again. Then who would have to wipe away all the tears and drag her from bed every morning? Michelle of course! No way in hell was that going to be Michelle's fate she was meant for shopping and parties not babysitting.

"Are you sure?" Peter says giving her suspicious look because he knew the signs of Michelle's brain working away at a plot or two.

That vile little trollop was messing wrong sort of people. Michelle would take care of her with no complications whatsoever. After all she was one half of the infamous 'Barbie Bandits' and no matter what they wrote in the papers or the crazy theories that common people spun up about them the fact remained that her and her fellow bandit were invincible. It was her and Carla to the end.

"Oh I'm sure Peter," she simpers under his intense gaze before laughing her infectious laugh that so often reassured people nothing was amiss, "Drive on Peter, drive on."

And so they sped into the night. For now Michelle was content in just celebrating her great escape.


	3. The name is Foster, Frank Foster

**A/N: This chapter is a bit different from the previous two sections. It is being told from Frank Foster's POV since he is going to be the main investigator on the trail in hunt of the 'Barbie Bandits' throughout this fic. This section includes a lot of references to Michelle but other then the occasional reference in relation to Tony Gordon this chapter is basically Carla/ Peter free.**

**I hope that the way I have set everything up isn't too all over the place and that it will be entertaining and easy enough to follow along with. I can't thank all of you enough for reading my work and I appreciate all the feedback, faves, and follows received. It is very encouraging so thank you :)**

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**La Condamine quarter, Monaco-September 1929**

Frank Foster was a strict man, strict and devoted to his profession one hundred and ten percent. He wasn't very fussy about a lot of things in this world. In fact he considered himself to be very amicable when it came the majority of things in life. However when it came down to getting a job done, Frank only asked that a specific criteria be met; that he be allow to work in silence and when it was dark. It wasn't much to ask for in his opinion and the request within itself he found could be understood in the literal meaning as much as it could be in a metaphorical sense. The thing was that most people did not get the memo nor could they figure him out and therefore he was often victorious. There was not a single case he couldn't solve if he didn't put his mind to it.

From his many years of experience as an investigator with the Scotland Yard, Frank found that few things ever appeared to the naked eye as they truly were. He would go into family homes investigating one murder after the next, interviewing the suspects, and trying to figure out who saw what and when. The families mostly put their best foot forward, telling him they were perfectly honest and willing to put everything out in the open for the greater good. But often such pretenses of open honesty were just that, pretense. For every family member crying out in the open Frank could catch another two scowling away in the corner. It was so interesting to see how people behaved when they thought no one watching and even more compelling to see how they behaved when someone certainly was. At the root of all these little acts and familial problems, watched or unwatched lay the essence of contempt.

Contempt was the driving force for every murderer, every runaway, every criminal, every human being and whilst people tried to trick their way out things and deny, deny, deny; it was the cold hard truth and nature of every single human being to be contemptuous. That's why it was always so intriguing to Frank how one could assume that once no one was around to watch them in the dark; that they could somehow be free to shed the façade and actually think it safe to unleash their hate. Suspects were ignorant of the rules of life; unaware that once the lights were out and all things silent, the truth always had a way of slowly rising from the shadows and revealing itself. When one was alone it couldn't be helped but to voice that inner contempt for those so deeply hated or then try to justify whatever reasons behind committing a particular crime. A person would just be dying, aching even about having to keep their own secrets before finally realizing it was an impossible feat. And considering that maybe, just maybe they really did want to tell someone... in fact they just couldn't wait. Frank liked to call such suspects 'cracks' because everyone had a weakness. Whether it be loneliness guilt, pressure, or even the desire for attention, someone would eventually have enough and just crack. And when they did Frank would be waiting patiently in the wings to lock them up and throw away the key. He lived by a motto in life, one which he believed to be the absolute truth:**contempt loves the silence it thrives in the dark**. And with contempt, first came the secrets and then the revealing truth. He would never stop his relentless crusade for the truth and more importantly what the law defined as truth.

His brown eyes flickered over the pocket watch he was clutching in his hands. It was reflecting the last rudiments of the night as the pastel like colors of the sunrise began to take root in the sky.

"Another dark night come and gone," remarks Franks investigative Partner Charles Norris. The two men were on a speedboat driving out into the sea under the direction of a two other uniformed Monegasque Police officers. The two had been sent by the country's Director of the Interior to keep an eye on the Englishmen's activities as well as any progress in this ongoing investigation. Frank not knowing a single of word of French allowed for his partner to do the most of the communication; most of which seemed to be getting lost in translation since they could never just let him roam the docks of La Condamine on his own at night. It was all rather frustrating because Frank considered himself to work for the best law enforcement agency in the world, The Scotland Yard and did not appreciate being kept on a leash like some common criminal. He did not work well under the restrictions made by others.

"Well if the law enforcement in this god forsaken place would listen to me once in a blue moon it would be great!" Frank snaps scowling at the rising sun. He had specifically asked them to take him out on the speed boat when it was after dark and the Monegasque's completely ignored all requests of his strict conditions. What was so hard to understand, he worked better at night. Night was the perfect to move about uninterrupted as well as unseen. These people were just too stupid to understand his methods and that he was much too ahead of his time.

"You know they can't do that Foster," says Frank's partner Charles laughing at his little outburst, "The Prince of Monaco has his royal yacht docked on Port Hercules and they don't like foreigners rummaging around these parts at night."

"I don't give a damn fuck about some stupid Prince and his stupid fancy yacht! I'm here to investigate the disappearance and possible murder of one of our own countrymen. Nothing is going to stop me from solving this case. I will crusade for justice!"

"Hmmm," says Charles making a calculated study of his investigative partner before shaking his head in dismay and sighing, "I wouldn't be so sure Frankie boy. Everyday your away from England is just another day you get decidedly more crazy. I wonder why you just didn't stay back? You clearly don't enjoy traveling and you were so attached to that case of the missing Heiress. I wonder sometimes if isn't effecting your work on the current cases—"

"Shut up!" Frank snaps yet again. The Monegasque officers stopped their conversation of fluent French momentarily to glare in his direction. But Frank didn't care. He hated the feeling of losing control of things since he liked for stuff to be done in a particular fashion. It had gotten him most of his successes and easy victories in life. The way he carried out investigations had to be done in a specific way or else all hell would break loose. That case in 1925, it was the first case he hadn't been able to solve and he hated Charles for reminding him of it. It made Frank insane…

_Frank kept on glancing irritably at the lamp sitting on his desk emitting back and forth annoyingly between the extremes of darkness and light. It reflected the roller coaster of his mindset and his mood in general. It was also a bloody hindrance of distraction making it virtually impossible for him to get any work done. He needed things to be controlled and steady in order for the truths to jump out and reveal themselves to him as they so often did. And they couldn't do that unless there was order and focus. Grabbing at the light knob he shut on and off, regaining some calm once the lamp was reduced to the less flightily and dimmer of the settings. Still none of the control could prevent her photograph from staring up eerily at him, the black hooks of her eyes stabbing at his soul; a constant reminder and stain upon his almost perfect record and career. She had been his first failure in all the years spent at Scotland Yard._

_Frank used to think that the photo of the girl was beautiful. In fact every time he looked at the photo he'd get sucked into her world, just wondering what it must have been like to grow up in a world of all that privilege. He could stare at the photo for hours upon hours getting lost in his own crazy narratives about what her life would've been like. Only to find himself then overcome with anger and sadness that she may never get to experience any narrative in life, not a single one when more than likely she was probably long dead. Frank didn't want to think like that, about death, about **her death**. He wanted to find the girl alive with her hair falling back over her shoulders ever so elegantly with the beautiful butterfly comb dangling in her hair just as it was now and always would be in the beautiful picture._

_He closed the file on her case regrettably angry that he'd never have a chance to solve things now. Frank was moving on to greener pastures; all the hard work on his other cases hadn't been for nothing. His promotion would have him working with another detective Charles 'Chuck' Norris in helping solve the disappearance and possible murder of the Scottish Factory Heir Antony Gordon. A new detective by the name Donald Fitzgerald would be taking over his old position as well as this old unsolved case…_

"_Maybe you'll succeed where I couldn't" Frank hands over the file box the next morning after a night spent packing up his old office. He was smiling somewhat on the inside. He could find a sliver lining in the fact that his box was at least relatively small in comparison to many of his fellow colleagues. Frank made his first impressions and observations watching the younger gentleman who'd be filling his shoes eagerly open the box flipping through the files until he stopped on **hers**._

"_Oh yes," Donald Fitzgerald whispers, "I remember her… everyone calls her the 'the butterfly comb lady' around these parts. Whatever happened to her, I wonder?"_

_Frank scrunched up his nose in dislike; he was well familiarized with that nickname and thought it was in poor taste. Because his personality required him to always be in control the situation, even if it came down to how people essentially viewed others, Frank on principle had to correct this show of disrespect, "Her name is not the 'butterfly comb lady'," he says sternly while his eyes roam over the picture possessively. Every minute spent looking at it only solidified Franks need to solve it and be on top. He wasn't ready to walk away from the heiress just yet, "Her name is 'Michelle Sinéad Connor' and you shall refer to her as such in the future going forward, understand?."_

"_Sorry, I did not mean any offence sir."_

"_It's alright Fitzgerald. You're new here and have much to learn," Frank smiles reluctantly trying to show some human emotion so it will be easier to get a favor from the new replacement, "I'd like to help you learn as much as you can in your time at Scotland Yard. I think you'll find that it's very hard to get places unless you know the right people. I'd like to help with your advancement in this agency."_

"_Well thank you. That's very generous." Fitzgerald was all smiles humming as he flipped through more cases. He was so naive and dumb in Frank's honest opinion as well as much too comfortable._

_Don't smile so fast, Frank thought to himself smirking at the audacity of this young smug detective to think he had what it takes to be now taking over 'his' case and his 'precious baby', "On one condition of course, I can help your career advance at a price."_

"_And what is that exactly?" says the young Fitzgerald gleefully entertained by Franks pompous behavior, "What are the conditions?"_

"_That when you're working the butterfly girls case you give me frequent updates. I don't wish to be left out of the loop."_

_"Sorry," Fitzgerald says smugly, But why__ should you care? I mean you're moving onto greener pastures. What's a missing heiress to you?"_

_Frank stared the man down with his cold brown eyes before glancing over his shoulder briefly out into the hallway. The coast was clear and like lighting, like something monstrous and vile had come over him; Frank's hand was pinned up against the young Fitzgerald's throat. The young detectives head pressed against the wall making it impossible for him to breathe under Frank's menacing stare. Files upon files were strewn about everywhere but Frank didn't care he was focused on the fear in those eyes, their contempt which would only reveal truth._

"_I'll tell you why I care," he whispers maniacally at the wheezing detective, "I care because I just do. And if you try to double cross me or take this case solved as your own full victory—"_

"—_What? What are you going to do? You've already got your promotion!"_

"_I'm going to destroy you," Frank sneers, "But not before I come for your wife, your friends, and family. I'll go completely insane on them and make no mistake I have no use for prisoners. People under my watch end up dead in a ditch instead. It's a vicious world out there! Now are we clear?"_

"_Yes," says Fitzgerald struggling from under Frank's death grip and panting for breath, "We're clear, please just don't hurt my wife! If at anytime I come across developments about the heiress Michelle Connor you'll be the first to know."_

"_Good lad," his demon like need for control has vanished and Frank was now content. Backing away from the wall and regaining the better of his senses he smirks at how easy it all was to manipulate the underdogs. Maybe there was a chance of him having a significant role in solving Michelle Connor's disappearance after all because it killed him to have this one unsolved case on his file and it'd kill him even more, the possibility of someone else solving it and getting all the credit for being able to see things he couldn't. That would be an inherent weakness on his part and Frank would not appear weak or flawed ever. "I have feeling we're going to be friends," condescending prowess is Frank's goal with this statement. He is making it clear that he will control and dominate this new detective at whatever the cost, " What do you think, do you think we'll be friends?"_

_Contempt laced the atmosphere, as the young Fitzgerald stood defiant against Frank's authority only to crumble under his menace and realize there were no other options but to obey. It was his word against Franks and Frank had many things which he did not; the first being seniority. It was the sad truth of office politics. Fitzgerald swallowed back the bile in throat in disgust and defeat before uttering, "We shall be good friends, **the best** of friends."_

_"Good to know you won't be a problem," Frank snarled before walking out the office. He had other crimes to solve for now with this new disappearance in Monaco but at least he could sleep better at night knowing that he still had a stake in the action when came to Michelle Connor. The 'butterfly comb lady' was never far from his mind…_

He grasped his fellow investigators hand letting Charles pull him up onto the dock and gain steady ground. They had just reached _Port Hercule_ La Condamine, the port of which many of the rich of Monaco, Europe and the world used to park their yachts. This is where Tony Gordon's yacht had been found just five months ago, eerily silent inside and abandoned. Yet if one were to pop inside it would seem he had only just left to go out of a second. Frank didn't let his eyes fool him as they roamed over it's outside; no one had seen Tony Gordon in over five months. He did not just pop out.

"Shall we get a move on then?" asks Charles Norris furrowing the lines in his forehead at Frank, "Only the Monegasque police want to us to get a move on," he says nodding to the two officers behind him still talking in French, "They say the society people don't like the looks cops about on the docks. It ruins the atmosphere of place and his serene highness benefits greatly from tourism—"

"Enough," says Frank irritably, "What are you, the damn spokesperson or something? We have a case to solve that involves one of our citizens. I don't give a bloody damn about there tourism."

"No, you care about coming out on top," says Charles reading Frank's mind perfectly. He was only detective which Frank considered an equal and therefore would never cross, "You need constant worship and idolization. And of course you want to be the hero with yet another promotion to tuck under your belt."

Frank started to climb aboard the actual deck of the yacht careful not to touch anything while at the same time completely ignoring his partner. He had the scene framed in his mind already, the music filling his ears trying to envision what the atmosphere was like last time this ship had set sail. It would have been around the end of April, that the last known account of any party or social function-taking place on this vessel that Frank knew of. He racked his brain retrieving details from the various interviews he conducted thus far with some of the locals and friends trying to figure out the character of the victim and how often he stayed on Port Hercule.

"..._How would you describe Antony Gordon? What is his character like?"_

"_Oh, well he is very generous. We always had wildest parties and the craziest guests when he took us on his yacht and invited us to Monaco."_

"_And this was an annual occurrence? He invited friends to Monaco for parties on his yacht frequently?"_

"_Yes and some strangers too. He likes the local girls a lot...and what I said before, he is very generous with his friends. We had the best everything and I know you'll probably think him reckless; but Tony was the furthest thing from irresponsible."_

_"How so?"_

_"Well he showed his possessions the upmost respect. One of his funniest traits...no one could miss it...he's a compulsive cleaner. I don't know why he doesn't ever utilize the hired help."_

_"Is he a good judge of other people's characters? Does he trust too easily-"_

_"Heavens no! Our Tony can spot a liar and thief from a mile away. I admire that he doesn't let people use him. A lot of rich folk have to deal with thieves and hanger-on's."_

"_So Tony had a few friends who tried to be 'hanger-on's' so to speak? And he saw through their games is that what your saying?"_

"_Yeah…I mean I guess. Oh and lots of people tried leaving their belongs hanging around too. But he didn't stand for that either. Tony liked for things to be clean and in order. He only let girlfriends keep stuff on his yacht exclusively, and even then it's very rare cases. Tony said It'd be easier that way with only one other person's belongings on board besides his._

_"And why was that?"_

_"Because if they ever pissed him off it was less things to throw over board. He had quite the sense of humor that one… "_

Frank roamed around the deck recalling various conversations. Remembering that it was just as important to focus on what people didn't say as much as what they did. He had to be careful with the gossip and little inferences people made in regards the victim because the important thing to always remember is that gossip** is the art of saying nothing in a way that leaves practically nothing unsaid**. And he didn't want gossip pointing him in the wrong direction forming falsehoods about the man. Frank needed to some how scratch beneath the superficialities of the personality one showed to the world inorder to reach what it was they truly were. What better way was there to know a man if not by becoming engrossed in their element and seeing how they lived for yourself and not by how others told you. That was the main reason Frank was on the victims boat right now. He hoped that some form of truth would jump out at him.

"It's like this place is a permanent shrine," remarks Charles following from behind as Frank slides open a door entering into the kitchen and living area, "The father wants to clean it up and sell it already. But the mother insists upon keeping everything the exact same. Silly woman actually thinks he'll come home one day."

"It's not silly Charles," says Frank his eyes jumping around from surface to surface prying his neck in places just to get a better look, "It's hope and you can't fault anyone for having that. There is not much to tidy up anyways, Tony kept his belongings in order. The only thing really strewn about is the bedroom area."

"Well he was a young man... entertained a lot of beautiful women and such…plus the sleeping."

"But he always made his bed," Frank shoots a look at Charles, "Remember his personal accountant Gilles said that Tony always made his bed whether sober or drunk. It was a habit from childhood as he spent a great deal of his youth vacationing with maternal grandfather who was in the army. Tony gained a lot of militaristic habits like making his bed in a specific way. That's a trait common amongst those in the military, don't you know?"

"Look who's been up all night with the case file again. Anything for a promotion," mocks Charles following Frank as he finally reaches the bedroom door and slides it open.

"You see, Tony was an ordered man. Even after parties as the file states he'd spend hours the next day cleaning up," Frank turned a bit giving Charles a side glance, "His last known day on the boat that we know of involved a party, right?"

"Right," says Charles, "The end of April, going into May. It was few days this last party."

"Take me through what his accountant Gilles said again, you know about the cleaning rituals."

"Lets see," says Charles flipping through his personal notebook and twiddling his thumbs humming whilst he looked for a specific date, "Oh here it is. Gilles said that Tony's cleaning regiment consisted of one bucket of vinegar and another bucket of bleach each of which he used to thoroughly wipe down surfaces in the bathroom, kitchen area, living room, gaming room, bedroom—"

"—Stop," Frank interrupts his mind zeroing in on the word 'bedroom' the bedroom they were standing right now, "Do you smell that smell?"

"I don't smell anything. Unlike the rest of the place after five months it's the only place that doesn't reek of vinegar or bleach still."

"Exactly!"

"Exactly, what?" says Charles flipping through his notebook some more until Frank snaps his fingers ordering its handover.

"Remember how Gilles said Tony had a cyclical pattern in which he cleaned the rooms on the yacht? He'd start from the back making his way to the front, you remember that right?"

"Yes I do. I wrote that down if I remember correctly—"

Frank flipped to the exact page reading out loud, " Here look: '_On the morning after a big soiree Tony always demanded that whomever had stayed the night get out his bedroom. It wasn't to be cold to the ladies or any thing, he just needed his room to be clean to have control after a night of so much reckless partying. Right away he'd grab for a bucket of vinegar and bucket of bleach and always he would start with the bedroom. If he didn't start with the bedroom it would mess his schedule up…', _Frank slammed the notebook shut grinning hoping the point was perfectly clear. He put himself into the mindset of Tony Gordon a rich Factory heir, who wanted things to be neat, neat things gave him comfort. Nothing gave him more comfort than the neatness of his own room. One's bedroom is where things often felt safest, "Tony didn't clean this yacht Charles. Someone else did."

" Right...because if we are to go by the gossip and personal accounts...if Tony had been the one to clean... then this room would be tidy before everything else," Charles is slowly talking himself through it all, "But it isn't...it's the complete opposite and Tony would never switch things up. So whoever cleaned up maybe didn't know this little fact about him. Right away I'd think it was one of the randoms instead of friend that killed him."

"I think we've been focusing on the wrong room Charles. For so long we thought because this room was the only room that had been disrupted that it then had to be the place of the crime. But you want to know what I think? I think that Tony left this room and walked out into the crime that would be his ending. And once whoever it was finished murdering him they cleaned up the front and that's why it's so squeaky clean."

"I think you may be onto something Foster," says Charles impressed enough to give Frank a rare compliment, "But the messy room? Why is it so messy, do you think it was throw us off intentionally in anyway? Perhaps the killer messed it more afterwards."

"No," says Frank thinking again he was trying to immerse himself into the character that was Tony Gordon, "But I do think it helps us nonetheless. We have Tony's cleaning regiment. He always trashed his room according to Gilles in intervals with the partying."

"Right," agrees Charles grabbing back his notebook, "It was scarily ritualistic...sacred even. Tony was a bit strange."

"I think we've established that much already," snaps Frank getting pumped with adrenaline and excited that he was onto something. In moments like these when he was close to victory that he could smell it and taste it, Frank got in the zone. He was already becoming Tony, getting into the mindset of man about to face his last sleep, his last drunken hurrah, his last moments of life.

"It would be party, then next cleaning the room continued on in unison," says Charles walking about the bedroom, "Clean room and then party. The messy room never comes before the partying in Tony's mind. It only ever comes after. Which means that on the day he murdered he was the 'messy room' phase which means a party had just occurred. He was murdered on the night of his last party...May the 2nd of 1929."

Frank was still in his own world having blocked out Charles and closing his eyes for complete darkness and complete silence. The truth would reveal itself somehow because it always did. And then like another person was taking over him, Frank let his body, his limbs lead the way from the bedroom. Charles knew better than to distrub him when he got to such an obsessive state. It was all apart of Frank's methods which he believed were ahead of the times. He now felt his knees dragging across the floor, crawling immersing himself in the environment, letting it speak for itself. Things were always hidden in the shadows.

"I don't think you're going to find anything Frank. The place is too clean and whoever did it covered their tracks well. The messy room is nothing more then an unintentional red herring and blunder of our investigative part. Perhaps we should call it morning and comeback tomorrow focusing on all the other rooms now that we know what not to focus on."

Frank ignored Charles, his fingertips still brushing the intimate surfaces of the floor. Nobody could clean up that well. The killer had to have left a calling card, some unique form of identification. He next crawled into the living room patting down the couches exasperated that nothing was jumping out at him yet. Frank would not go back that bedroom though, he was convinced that whatever he was looking was hiding in plain sight and he close eyes again; a familiar tactic used to pull himself together begging only for silence and welcoming the darkness of his memories. There had to be something in his head that could give him some clue as to what he should be looking for. He recognized something in this room, Frank was certain of it. And when his eyes fell on it all he felt was shock. It was like 1925 all over again…

"_Thank you for seeing us Inspector Foster," the young gentleman is waiting at the front steps greeting Frank with full manners and complete ceremony despite the all around atmosphere of panic and discontent, "Follow me, please…my father is just through here."_

_It was not long before Frank was practically running to keep up with the young man who in rushed segments of conversation revealed himself to be the young victims older brother. The gentleman then pushed a pair of big white oak doors open. As they came apart they revealed an image come straight from a scene of some classical painting. It was a room with the finest of tapestries and elegant surroundings with the subjects; a rather unnaturally attractive family sitting in the center in such a stifling superior manner there is no room for air._

"_You're the inspector, then?" says an older man with blackish grey hair immediately rushing from his seat and breaking the strange atmosphere._

"_Yes," says Frank holding out his hand and giving a firm grip, "You must be Mr. Connor."_

"_You may call me Barrington," his eyes were a vivid blue with specks of red from what Frank could only assume had been a good cry. The gentleman was struggling to remain dignified in the face of such circumstances and under the patriarchal pressure of family._

"_Hello Barrington," Frank says curtly before nodding his head at the other family members also present in the room._

"_This is my wife Helen," Barry motions to the blonde woman behind them with cold brown eyes and a superior manner. She would not even so much as rise from her chair to greet him. Opting to analyze Frank instead like he was some foreign insect with no business in her elegant home. "My eldest son Paul who directed you to us," Paul gave a friendly enough nod as they had been brief acquitances, "And here is my other son Liam."_

"_Nice to meet you," says Liam who unlike his mother actually had the manners to rise up fron his chair and make his way over to shake Franks hand._

"_And lastly," Barrington croaks out, "This is my daughters fiancé, Mr. William van Wonka."_

_Frank was stunned to see a man practically decrepit appearing out of nowhere wobbling forward on the support of a walking stick to shake his hand. He had pockmarks and everything; a truly disgusting sight, Frank had to hold his breath at the wheezing and fowl smell. This had to be some joke and because he didn't want to be rude, he made the handshake as quick as possible turning away to regain some fresh air before reminding himself why he was here and why he must keep it together._

"_How long has the lady in question been missing Mr. Connor. When last was your daughter seen?"_

"_We last saw our daughter the previous evening when we all sat down for supper," answers the mother Helen rather snidely, "Our Michelle was being quite the difficult young lady. But she's always difficult," her tone showed nothing but contempt for her daughter and yet she could not help but speak of her all the same. Frank could tell she had just been dying for him to ask a question, any question so she would no longer have to remain silent and could speak her mind, "Knowing my sneaky little daughter she probably snuck off in the darkness of the night. Complete cowardice if you ask me!"…__**contempt loves the silence it thrives in the dark**__._

"_Do you know any reason why she would runaway? If anything was bothering her?" Frank now made a study of the room and it's subjects. It was always much more about what people didn't say versus what they did. And the way the shoulders hunched over on Mr. Connor's frame in a defensive stance, or how the one brother Liam pretended to have all of the sudden developed an interest in the ceiling frescos made it quite clear that this family was definitely hiding something. And yet they had been the ones to call him, seeking him out and promising complete honesty…actions always spoke louder than words._

"_Nothing I can think of," says the brother Paul attempting to stifle the air he gave Frank one of the most disingenuous smiles imaginable._

"_I see," Frank smirks realizing he was getting nowhere with this family today. But that was no worry because he could easily figure for himself what the elephant in the room was that no one wanted to address. The girl had probably ran away from the nasty old excuse for a fiancé and Frank couldn't blame her one bit. "Well," he says moving onto other things, "Can I see a picture of the girl? It would help to know who exactly it is I'm looking for."_

"_Of course," says Barrington Connor leading the way as they exit one room and enter another. He picks up a photo handing it Frank, but Franks eyes fall another much more appealing if not more beautiful portrait of the young girl. He was in trance feeling like she was speaking to him and he gently let his fingers caress her image going gently over the ornament in her hair, "It's a butterfly comb, " whispers the father Barrington._

_Frank looks at the gentleman composing himself in a proper manner. He had foolishly forgotten himself having been stunned by the girls enchanting and very attractive features, "Pardon me?"_

"_It's a butterfly comb in her hair," he repeats again, "It was terribly expensive…a gift for her fourteenth birthday. I had it custom made so there are no others in the world like it." Frank didn't know if he much believed that but he let man have his moment fawning over memories of his runaway daughter, "Well actually there are two but it's a set so she owns both."_

"_Father," says the brother Liam from behind, "Wasn't our Michelle wearing one of them at suppertime last night?"_

"_Yes," says Barrington getting excited, " She was, wasn't she Liam. Come Mr. Foster perhaps you should have a look in her room and see if anything looks suspicious. It's not usually polite for a gentleman to venture into a young woman's room. But I'll make an exception since you're doing a job and really I wouldn't know what to look for."_

_Frank still clutching the photo, followed Barrington and a servant of Michelle's into the upstairs area. Upon entering the girls room he noticed right away that while many things were thrown about the bed sheets remained freshly pressed thus giving the impression that the bed hadn't been slept in. The servant gave him her word that she hadn't touched a thing and after listening to Barrington talk for a few more moments Frank was giving time to be alone. He took in the atmosphere of the room, trying to get into the right mindset. He tired to think like a young girl who just wanted to runaway to a place of comfort and wish to not be found. There were more photos, mostly of her and brothers and few with the father. It gave off the impression that the men of the family utterly adored her while her mother felt the opposite. Frank closed his eyes welcoming the silence and the darkness. Thinking that all he knew about this Michelle girl at the moment was that she's engaged, a runaway, and apparently had unique one a kind butterfly combs. She had butterfly combs…_

_His eyes flew open and his legs like agents of there own accord led him towards the dresser. Franks hands were pressed firmly on a little brown box he didn't waste a second before pushing it open and smiling. There was only one butterfly comb, picking it up and examining it closer he sought to figure what apparently made it so special and so one of a kind. And then he saw it on the part where the actual insect was. When you turned the comb over there was an engraving…initials, or rather half initials. The letter 'S' was cut in half._

_Frank remembered from the pre-report earlier filled out earlier that when the girl's father had reported her missing he included her middle name Sinead…Michelle Sinead Connor…MSC. When the butterfly combs were together, only then would they make out the full engravings of her initials. Looking at a piece of paper sticking out of the box he tugged on it discovering it was pamphlet saying no two engravings were ever done the same. _

_Interesting, he thought, very interesting..._

He couldn't believe it, not even as his fingertips brushed the base of it pulling it closer towards him delivering it from the shadows and out from under the couch. It had been in the darkness all this time...for five months until he, Frank Foster finally discovered it. This was like fate and truly believed it had been waiting him. There were no words in which to describe it; this elating feeling as the rays of sun bounced off the ceramic porcelain making it appear like a beautiful gem.

"You've found something," says Charles coming into few peering down at Frank as he sits mystified by the turn of events, "What is it?"

"It's a butterfly comb," he whispers a smile now beginning to take form on his lips, "A very rare butterfly comb."

"You're ridiculous," says Charles, "Unless that's somehow magically going to solve this disappearance/murder investigating for us at a drop of the hat I suggest you stop gawking at it like it's the Hope Diamond or the second coming of Christ."

"Oh it's better than both those things combined Charles," says Frank smirking as he gains his footing, "Because today I finally have an idea of who we may need to be looking for."

Before his eyes flash all the times he's held it in the darkness days long since he first snatched it from her room. In the quite of his office, whenever he looked at photo and always before he went to bed, Frank made but one promise...that to find the other missing half of the butterfly comb was to find the missing heiress. He put them together, each side apart for so long only living half a story until now. Now they were reunited, fitting so perfectly together there was no doubt Frank could in fill in all the missing pieces of the girls narrative. She had gotten a far ways from England that much was certain.

"M.S.C." mutters Charles as both men look down at the combs virtually speechless though for completely different reasons, "But what does it all mean?"

"It means we have a clear suspect Charles. Yesterday we had no idea what we we're looking for or even who. We were incomplete darkness, aimless even. But everything's changed now. Now we have the truth staring us in the face and we can't deny it." Frank was so happy. Never his wildest dreams would he have thought of killing two birds with one stone. After all these years he could track down Michelle Connor and solve the murder of Tony Gordon. He truly believed she had some answers, "Remember the 'butterfly comb lady'?"

"I've heard about her...isn't she dead...been dead since '25, Foster?"

"No Charles," says Frank ecstatic with his success today, "She's only been in the shadows...until now. She's very much alive, I can feel it."

Frank could just feel it in his gut. Michelle Sinead Connor was alive and he, Frank Foster was coming for her.


	4. The Kids are Alright

**A/N: I know this is a Carchelle friendship fic but the beginning of the chapter just has some Liam and Paul interaction. Carla's part is in the second half. Apologies for spelling mistakes. I will comb over this chapter again later as I am sure to have missed many. The latter part of this section has some violence so as a whole the chapter is rated M. As always thanks for reading my work :)**

* * *

Paul and Liam exchanged sad and nervous glances. They had been waiting outside for what seemed like hours; the doctor had been called in from town as there father's health had taken a turn for the worse. And in that space between hollow breathes and were nothing seemed to exist he felt the pressure of Paul's hand giving his own a gentle squeeze in which he quickly returned. The door opened suddenly causing them both to jump and rise immediately as their mothers wailing became more pronounced spreading out into the hallway and overtaking the whole house. The doctor appeared looking grave, reaffirming Liam's instincts…their father was dying.

"How long doctor?" Paul whispered

"Nightfall," the doctor responded adjusting his glasses and gripping his medical bag tightly, "There is little much else I can do him. I did what I could to ease the pain, but I've advised your mother to send for the priest. I am so very sorry but he taken to bad health for some years now. Perhaps it is time."

Liam nodded his solemnly swallowing back the tears forming in his throat. He knew the doctor was right. Their father hadn't been the same ever since Michelle disappeared five years ago. She had always been his favorite and the heart and joy of the family. Not knowing what had had happen to her, where she had gone, what fate she fell disposed to broke their father down, his spirit slowly been withering away with each passing day. He quickly moved past the doctor drawn to the sounds of his mother wailing striding into the room. Paul soon followed shutting the door behind them.

"Is that my Michelle?" Their father Barrington whispered as they stepped closer to the bed, "Is that my Michelle come home to see me?"

"Father," Paul barely found his voice, "father it is us…your sons…"

"Oh Barry it's Liam and Paul," their mother Helen cried gripping her husband hand she ushered her sons to come closer.

"Father," Liam knelt down at the opposite side of the bed. He couldn't look away from the sickly paleness and hair sticking to the pillow in a delirious sweat. It hadn't really clicked in until now.

"Liam…Paul…my sons," he feigned recognition once more. He had been going in and out of states like this all day. Now it was clear he was sound mind as he looked them ushering his sons over, "come, come here…come closer," they both did as they were told, "listen…"

"Father I beg you do not leave us," Paul pleaded.

"Paul," he ignored the plea getting straight to business, "you must look after your mother. Make sure she is always cared for and honored when I am gone. You must also look after your brother Liam. You're the head of this family now, uphold my legacy and make me proud."

"Yes father, always father."

"Liam," Liam stepped closer as his father identical blue eyes held his gaze, "you are the younger son but I still expect that you will look after your mother and ensure that have a care in the world. Do you understand?"

"Yes father," Liam failing at keeping composure. He would break any moment now and break down any moment if he could.

"Helen leave us," their father abruptly said, a strange amount of strength coming over him as he hoisted himself up against the pillows, "please," he added when his wife stared confused and little hurt, "only for a moment."

"Alright then…"

Liam had sinking suspicion as to what all of this was about. Again he exchanged glances with Paul as their mother Helen left the room knowing better then to protest and send her husband to an even earlier grave. They waited until she was sure to be long gone down the hallway and they were sure no one was eavesdropping on her behalf before Barrington gesture from them each to one hand. Liam and Paul did so immediately, shifting closer to their father.

"Have you checked out the lead on that girl?" Barrington choked through stifled whispers and a vicious unyielding cough.

"We came from there two days ago," Paul, returned hushed whispers glancing at Liam, "it wasn't her though… and she has nothing for us."

"I thought so," their father said gravely, "but she is lying, keeping secrets for someone else, on somebody's behalf. There is hope, there is always hope which is why you must continue to keep looking."

"These women are just looking for money father or infamy…it's a sickness like that Anna Anderson thing all over again; stupid imposters playing off family emotions and the fortunes of status. I don't know why we must continue to entertain them—"

"—Because Scotland Yard is not doing there job and has not for some years now Liam, don't fight me on this, not now when I am on my death bed! Frank Foster got transferred to a new case and by all accounts his replacement Donald Fitzgerald is incompetent. So you both must continue in the search of your sister. You must bring her home, whether it be dead or alive, her place belongs here with the family." Before Liam could object, their father weakly snapped his fingers at Paul, motioning between him and a desk nearby, "Paul go over there and open up the top drawer. You'll find a box, brown with a key in lock…bring it to me."

Before Liam could object, Paul got up obeying their father immediately. Opening the drawer he quickly brought it back placing it on the bed, "What's inside of it father?" Paul asked pushing forward to be opened.

"Proof."

"Proof of what?" Liam's heart sunk. He did not like that his father was doing this now.

"Inside is proof of two things; either that your sister is alive or second that it can lead you who may have harmed her if it turns out she has indeed died. You will not open it until I am dead. But you will pursue every lead I have collected over the past five years with none of the pessimism you have displayed before me today. You will also keep this a secret from your mother. I will not explain now, because I for a word of slander against your mother to ever touch my lips while I'm alive. But once you open that box, you will have no question as to why. Understood?"

"Father—," none of this was making any sense to Liam. It was shocking to hear his father allude to his mother in such strange terms.

"Swear it! Swear that one if you shall fail or come to an untimely death that the other shall continue to pursue what is in this box until the truth about your sister is revealed once and for all. Promise," all of his frail weakness from earlier was gone, "Promise me now," his boomed as he motioned for his sons to link hands with one another and with him in some kind of binding vow," Give me your word."

Liam felt that this was all truly hopeless. They had been looking into sightings on and off and entertaining leads on the behalf of their father for five years. He didn't understand what was in that box that could change everything and somehow make Liam believe that they would be able to find Michelle. He knew his sister; deep down inside since the day she disappeared he knew that she wouldn't be found unless she wanted to be. And in the same hand there was the reality of the situation, his father wasting away before him while he was still trying to grasp everything that dying meant. He could see things unfolding in front of him, horrible regretful things about a past insisted upon that they always remember and Liam couldn't look away simply because there was nothing like it…accepting that his own spirit was dying after such a long grueling fight. He was watching what was left of him and that of this whole family die in his father's eyes. Their mother was crying and heartbroken now, but soon enough she'd be fighting Paul for control of the Estate and all the money. But in spite of all of this Liam had to open his mouth and force his mind and will into obedience, "I give you my word father, we give you our word."

Both sons stayed with him as he passed quietly into the night…

"Ready?" Paul sighed heavily, the presence of death and sorrow in loss still in the air. Both brothers stood over the box apprehensive about the contents inside. This really wasn't good time to go chasing the past when their father had just been such way.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Liam said sorrowfully. It would seem that he and Paul could never have lives of their own but the one lived solely for the sake of their sister. How could he ever come to terms of a life fully wasted, especially if she turned out to be alive having a life of her own; not that he was counting on that.

"Okay," Paul whispered with one last look, turning the key both brothers moved the lid of the box aside.

Liam reached in picking up a folded letter sitting on top all the contents. It was addressed 'To Paul and Liam' in their fathers cursive. His eyes teared up expecting to open a heartfelt goodbye letter but inside the brothers read something completely different. There was a moment of silence as both tried to correlate between their eyes and mouth what they were seeing so they could put it into speech. Again they exchanged glances, this time their eyes slits of confusion and shock.

When it really set in he got chills down his spine; Liam slowly reached forward, bringing the first piece of paper up to his eyes for closer inspection, then the second the third, and the fourth. Words failed him as he passed all four pieces along to Paul so he too could further examine them, "I thought his letter wasn't true…the stuff he was saying last night…"

"I know," Paul whispered accepting Liam's invitation to further examine them, "this can't be real…what are we to make of this? I don't understand father…how could he leave us knowing this—"

"—But he doesn't know very much…"

"…this can't be true."

But it was, as they laid out all four pieces of documentation side by side they examined things again clearly. The paper didn't lie and each of them where boldly filled out in ink not penciled in…

_**Barrington John Connor July 2, 1860—September 11, 1929**_

_**Paul Aaron Connor April 5, 1902—November 28, 1929**_

_**Liam Barrington Connor February 25,1907—January 1, 1930**_

_**Michelle Sinead Connor July 18, 1909—?**_

"Pre-issued death certificates? Is there such a thing?…someone's out to kill us Paul." Liam whispered.

"But who?"

"Who else?" bile was forming in Liam's mouth in disgust before adding bitterly, "I must say father's a very good actor though. Had to say certain things incase she can back to listen. She's the only one not listed…"

"…Mother," Paul whispered his forehead furrowing as all sunk in. They knew there mother, she was cold which is why neither struggled too long in the fight to believe this, "And knowing this, knowing what he knew…father would just leave us this to fend for ourselves?"

"Of course," Liam whispered looking at the calendar date in the room 'September 11, 1929', "haven't you figured out yet…father would sacrifice everything our lives included so long as we still have time to bring Michelle home dead," his eyes lingered on the question mark, "or alive. "

Paul reached into the box rummaging some more, until he pulled something else out; two things actually, "Father said to 'look after her' remember?," he threw one over to Liam which he barely caught. Their eyes gleamed back and forth at one another, "I think we may have read his meaning wrong…"

Liam glance down somewhat in a daze before whispering back, "I think you may right."

"Michelle got away…she got away," Paul grinned everything sinking in. That's what their father meant when he said the contents of the box would either confirm hope or point them in the direction of a potential killer or in this case probably attempted murder has Michelle escaped.

Liam couldn't be happier right now, if what both brothers were thinking about Michelle fate was in fact true. It seemed their father had faith in them too, "I guess father thinks us kids will be alright." They'd have to look at what else father left them later but for now…

Both brothers had their guns.

* * *

"This is all honestly one huge mistake, "Carla huffed as one of the police officers hulled her into a waiting holding cell," unhand at once you filthy swine!" she snapped just about at the end of her rope after being processed and made to take off her expensive furs. The station was very chilly, "This is no way to treat a lady. Don't you know who my father is?!"

"Lawrence DeWhitney apparently," the officer mutter, "a name which means nothing to me by the way. He could be the King of England and I still wouldn't care. You obstructed the law!" he was struggling to push Carla inside something she was clearly resisting.

"My sister obstructed the law. Get it right!" Carla had lost all her feminine charms having been frazzled and greatly disposed by the ordeal Michelle had put her in, "My sister Moira did. I am guiltless."

"We can't find your sister Moira and the hotel bill is under both names, so you are both responsible parties. Do I have to explain the law to you? An educated heiress like yourself," he gave another nudge shoving Carla in quickly and slamming the cell shut, "you will be staying here until your sister shows up."

"Is that a threat?" Carla glared, "I hope that isn't the sound of you giving me a threat?" Carla was full of hot air ruining her chances of charming these officers into a chance at freedom every passing minute.

"You'd be wise to keep silent signora. Now I will get you a cup of water like requested earlier and sit pretty until the ispettore di polizia is ready to speak with you."

Carla was exhausted slumping back against the bench in the small cell. It smelt damp like a wet puppy; conditions Carla hadn't experience since finding solace in the likes of Peter Barlow some years ago. She may have been born poor but she pulled herself out of that miserable existence and lived the high life. Carla truly believed ever since she was a little girl that she had been destined for great things and this current predicament was not great one single bit. Carla needed Peter, stupid bloody Peter who was gallivanting around Spain. What use was he to her in Spain and Monaco in when that whole accident with Tony occurred? She sat fuming more and more as minutes passed, straining her eyes and looking at the clock, it most almost near evening now, when the hell would she ever get to use a damn telephone or send a telegram?

Her mind wandered wondering what had happened to Michelle. None of this stress and crazy predicament, which she found herself in would have happened if Michelle just one thing asked of her and paid the bloody hotel bill. But her careless behavior, first with Tony in Monaco and now splurging money in Rome always got them into trouble. Michelle simply refused to grow up. It was getting tiresome now, Michelle living in a world with no limits because she had been born with a sliver spoon in her mouth. People like Carla and Peter actually suffered a fair bit of trials and tribulations, that they could splurge but still remain somewhat grounded because they knew what life was like at the bottom, they simply refused to ever go back. Peter and Carla were fighters while Michelle was weak.

How long Carla had been zoned out and lost in her angry thoughts Carla would never know. She fell into a bit of a stupor after the officer came back a measly cup of water. However when she came to, the first thing she saw was a pair of shiny black shoes on the floor in front of her. Carla jumped as the man came into focus, she was very confused and he somewhat amused.

"Gloria DeWhitney is it?" the man spoke. Carla noticed his accent was English, a rather strange surprise.

"Yes," Carla muttered rubbing her eyes and adjusting to the surroundings better as she took him in a blond haired gentleman, with a thin frame and tall height, "yes that's me. Who's asking?"

"I'm Inspector Nicholas Tilsley of the Scotland Yard," he held his hand for her to shake.

What's an Inspector of the Scotland Yard doing in Italy, Carla had to wonder. She however was not about to ask, she did have a good feeling about this though, she was panicking, silently cursing Michelle again for putting her in this predicament, "Come all the way from Britain?" Carla grasped his hand trying to maintain a firm handshake full of confidence.

"Yes, tis a long ways to travel but I had to see for myself…" he trailed off, his blue eyes peering into her for a time, his expression unreadable before he said, "If you could with me?"

"Where?" Carla panicked yet again there was something about this Inspector Tilsley she did not like.

"Just to the questioning room," forcing a smile, "We need to have a discussion of great privacy," inclining his head for yet a second time he repeated, "If you will Miss De Whitney."

Carla's legs felt like lead on the way to the interrogation room or as he so sneakily renamed it in attempts to sound less threatening, 'The questioning room' Carla almost felt like taking her chances and making a run for it, but all around her the Italian police were busy going about, she'd have little chance.

The interrogation room was also very cold but he allowed for one the officers to send for Carla's fur coat. It was ridiculous that they had taking it from her earlier, but Tilsley tried to explain it all away saying it was a procedural search for weapons.

"I can't tell you how many times I've been taken for a fool by a woman concealing gun in her fancy fur coat. Lets just say enough times to know not to take that chance again."

Carla gauged him, she could see he was warming up a bit and she thought of ways she could manipulate him. But first she had to play calm and collected and figure out what this was all about before laying her cards on the table, "And who exactly was that? Who was the woman concealing a gun in her fur coat?"

"Too many lifetimes for it to matter I'm afraid," he entertained the small talk pulling out a pack of cigarettes and offering her one before sitting each alight.

Carla took a few drags, seductively working her red lips against it, building clouds of smoke before resting her elbow on the table and asking boldly, "So what's this all about? Don't tell me an inspector of the Scotland Yard travels all the way to Rome because of unpaid hotel bill. That would be a great waste of tax payer money."

He gave a small chuckle, taking a few more puffs himself as he retrieved a pad and paper, not breaking his eyes away from her once, "Nothing to do with hotel bills actually, that was just an opportune moment…I'm here on business of a more serious matter."

Carla's heart was thunderous. She praying in her head that he would mention the dreaded name 'Tony Gordon' or she would die, "A serious matter?" Carla swallowed, "Of what sort?"

"I was just wondering if you could tell me when last you saw your father Lawrence de Whitney or any of your other family members if you can manage that?"

This had to be a trick question. Michelle had been the one to make these specific aliases and Carla had just taken her word for it when given the background information. She knew that she was the oldest of the girls in this family but the third child if they counted the boys, with younger sisters trailing behind. Her father was an American Tycoon from Montana but her mother was some British lady something or the other. They were divorced, she went through the names of her 'siblings' trying to make sure she got them right before opening her mouth, "I haven't seen my father in some months now. I spend most of my days in Britain with my mother and sisters."

He scribbled down notes, "Can you give me an approximate time period, a specific month?"

"I don't go to America much."

"Where is your mothers estate in England?"

Carla raked her brain trying to remember before she realized it was a trick question. The divorcee de Whitney had a townhouse in Bath, "My mother doesn't have an estate. We live in our townhouse."

"You and your two sisters, Moira and what is the ones youngest name?"

"Leni," Carla regurgitated information like word vomit, "her name is Leni."

His eyes glinted a bit, the pen paused for a fraction of a second before continuing on. There was something strange about this all,"hmmmm," he murmured,

"Look I don't know why you must insist on drilling me about my family. It's all pointless questions and quite frankly we are all very private people."

"Just making sure of a few things?"

"Things like what?"

"When did you last see your father and mother again?" he ignored her previous question.

"Months ago…March," Carla pulled out of thin air plastering a huge confident smile on her face. She would never admit to using a fake identity.

"How can that be," he said slowing staring up from the pad of paper, "When Gloria de Whitney hasn't seen by her parents or living family since 1923?" The blood drained from Carla's face immediately. She cursed Michelle a thousand times in her head. The girl couldn't even pick false identities right. Carla was tongue tied as he closed in on her going for the attack, " You're not who you say you are…I know it."

"And how do you?" Carla was willing to get defiant and lie her way out of everything to the end, "I am being perfectly honest! I will get my father on the phone—"

"—GO AHEAD! He'll expose you for the fraud and murderer you are!" he snapped.

"What?" Carla said shocked.

"I don't know if you know this, but there's a ring that's been operating for sometime throughout Britain kidnapping heiresses never to be heard from or seen again. Since 1920 this has been occurring actually! I knew you were a fraud from the moment you opened your mouth."

"Oh really and why is that?!" Carla snapped. When she was backed into a corner she would explode, it was just her nature kind of like how she had exploded on Tony having a hand in his demise.

"If you were in fact Gloria de Whitney, you would know that you lost both brothers in the Great War when they went to volunteer with a Canadian Infantry unit. The eldest in 1914, the second 1917, making Moira the ultimate heir to her fathers grand fortune. You would also know that Moira would not be living you in the townhouse Bath as she has been married since 1922 and living in London. Lastly your youngest sister 'Leni' is not actually apart of the DeWhitney clan, she a bastard the reason for her parents divorce and no one calls her 'Leni' except her maternal grandmother. Everyone else calls her Leanne and her last name is Battersby, the surname her mothers lover for some years Les Battersby and I know this all because I was once engaged the girl. So tell me again that you are who you say you are! I dare you because I know what everyone of Leanne's half sisters look like and was sent her by the pleading of the mother Stella once transactions and rumors where ramped afloat about a likely dead de Whitney running about in Rome! Poor woman just wanted to make sure her kid was alright!"

Carla was freaking screwed, she could faint any second now. Fucking Michelle couldn't even properly research, "Look," she started off.

Inspector Tilsely quickly cut her off, "So the question is are you apart the ring of kidnappers murdering these heiresses? Where has your partner in crime gone? The police tell me the hotel room was cleared when they tried to retrieve evidence. How many ladies have you killed? Is the infamous 'butterfly comb girl' one of your victims?"

"I'm not a murderer," Carla announced her eyes scanning the room these words tore through chest because she knew deep down this wasn't true; she had murdered Tony Gordon or at least assisted in it, "You've got the wrong person. I know it looks bad but—"

"—There are 'buts' about this. I am going to have to arrest you."

Carla decided there and then she could not let that happen. She had to grab for his gun and make a run for it. She would sacrifice and have everything she had worked so hard for undone. Calculating her moves, clutching her purse and working her mind over about what whether it had any weapons for good use, she was just about to make a lounge at him. When there was a loud shriek, lots of commotion and then…

BANG!

Inspector Tilsley's eyes grew wide as she rushed towards the door commanding Carla to stay where she was. Of course Carla wouldn't listen and finding a sharp pen knife in her purse she lounged at him from behind staking him in the neck. He didn't even have time to react as blood splattered everywhere and he made a gurgling noise. She had to kill him, he was the only one she knew right now that knew her secret. He had uncovered the aliases and who knows what else. Turning him over, she stared into those blue eyes, unfeeling and in survival mode; nobody was going to this life from her. Tearing the pen knife from out of his neck she proceed to stab him in the torso, stabbing and stabbing against his defensive wounds seeing red until she came too. The fact that she had just committed her second murder was an afterthought of little concern. Casualties where part of the game. Quickly she wipe her hands of his blood in his handkerchief, the sounds of commotion outside had been enough to mask any sounds of her crime. Not like he could scream from where she applied the first wound. Quickly she patted the body down, taking out his wallet and pocketing it in her purse, she took his inspectors badge as well. Finally undoing his gun handle she got the gun ready to roll. There had to be a back exit out of this place, Carla wasn't about to go killing any Italian cops today or else she'd never be free.

Taking on last deep breath, she step over the body reminiscent of stepping over Tony's and opened the door. Turning opposite of the commotion and havoc, whatever the hell had descended on that place; Carla walked as quietly as she could down the hallway looking for a back exit.

"TURN AROUND OR I'LL SHOOT!" a voice boomed through the noise.

Gripping her gun with a quick reflex, Carla spun around ready to pull the trigger but instead almost dropped it to the ground.

"Carla?" his brown eyes were wide with amazement.

Carla's was even more so, "Peter? Oh my god Peter!" what was he evening doing here? This had to be a dream.

"Oh god!" he quickly lowered his gun," Thank god you are safe. I was so worried you wouldn't be alright. I couldn't risk another moment and leaving you in danger."

"I think I handled myself pretty well," Carla managed to grin savouring his warm and friendly hug.

More commotion and voices were getting closer. Carla wanted to ask what the hell was going on and how he managed to get himself inside. But instead Peter interrupted grinning down at Carla's hand, "Well will you look at that, you're alright kid…and look you even got yourself a gun."


	5. Stories I Only Tell my Friends

**A/N: This chapter is finally a bit more Carter based like readers have been hoping for. I am posting a bit late and am getting tired so excuse some of the grammatical/ spelling errors. I will be back to edit and make corrections to things I missed. **

**Thank you to all who read as well as those who review. Much appreciated as always :)**

* * *

He was unlike any man she had ever met...probably the first real man she had known if Carla were being completely honest with herself. They had read about him before, both Carla and Rob, back when they were younger and things were just starting out for the infamous Peter Barlow. It was Rob who insisted on making it something of a tradition, the hours, which the two siblings spent, huddled together in a dark room brandishing an oil lamp as they skimmed over every detail of articles just enthralled with the newspaper clippings. Carla usually did most of the reading while Rob sprawled out in front of her, captivated as the dim light fell over his features. He was in a dream world with his eyes wide open and his mouth wide open just devouring up all there was to know about Peter Barlow's escapades.

"_I wanna be like that," he'd whisper, the words rolling off his tongue effortlessly never afraid to hide his true self or tainted ambitions from the world even at that age._

"_Like what?" Carla whispered back._

"_Mad," he stated simply, "the sort of mad that brings little consequence, the type of man that lives with no regrets…a mad man."_

Rob had always been smart, thought provoking even from a very young age but his outlook on the world and all the people in it could be unsettling; like for his young age he already had such a helpless view about life and a hardened soul of an old and long suffering person. Carla remembered as a child how scared Rob made her feel at times and how scared she was for him.

"_He's just a human being…"_ _Carla would talk down Rob but even as she said that Carla knew it wasn't true. Peter Barlow was a myth, a legend so far beyond anything either child could comprehend but at the same time he was just the thing they both needed._

Rob needed to envision the idea of a rugged man, fearless in the face of authority, never afraid to leave any piece of this big world unturned or uncovered. It was the only way to escape the shame of their mother's countless and often brutish boyfriends who liked to use him as a personal punching bag. Listening to the stories seemed to be the only time that angry fire in his eyes subsided, the only time he was calm and Carla could sense he was undergoing some sort of emotional suicide every time a story was read. That Rob was somehow cutting out the cancerous parts of his mind he felt were inhibiting him from finding a voice and fighting back. In its place he fashioned a new self just as brave, rebellious, fearless and raging as Britain's greatest con man.

"_They say he can't be killed… all the boys in the neighborhood…they say Peter Barlow can't be killed. Once he got 20 bullets in his back and the coppers still couldn't bring him down. One time he was taken to the morgue dead as can be. But then when night came, he just rose up—like he had been sleeping the whole time—reborn… just walking out, unaffected by all those bullets. No one could explain it because so many had seen him dead," Rob protested annoyed at Carla's reluctant to see his side of things before finally snapping, "You think they're just a bunch of stories, don't you?"_

"_They are Rob, they are just stories because Peter Barlow is just a man and any man can be killed…"_

She put up a front towards her brothers ramblings and obsessive preoccupation with the con man was annoying but inside strange feelings began to take affect. The jolts in her stomach mirrored that of the elated and glowing looks emitting from Rob's face every time Peter Barlow was mentioned. In a sense Peter had come to encompass the 'everyman' for Carla taking on the role of a protector both paternalistic and brotherly. Slowly she let her heart falter to the girl like fantasies of lover (something that would become reality). Making up scenarios in her mind about the outlaw robber swooping in and saving her from unsavory situations. Of course she never told anyone about the stories she envisioned and dreamed up, too embarrassed they weren't even stories she would tell her closest friends. But Rob was different he would tell Carla almost every little story conjured up in his mind.

"_What's the one thing you're afraid of?" Carla would whisper under a tent of covers fumbling around with the oil lamp trying to conceal as much light as possible._

"_I'm afraid of being forgotten…" Rob would whisper in the darkness. His eyes always drifting over the various Peter Barlow articles, " I've been a nobody my whole life. But you can bet on it that if I get that one chance, that one opportunity to be recognized and prove myself I'm not gonna just let it slip through my fingers," he nodded his head firmly with a strong sense of conviction before his brown blazed asking, "What about you Car?"_

"_That no one will love me," she replied unable to stop the word vomit._

"_I love you."_

When somebody said 'I love you' what they really meant to say but are too afraid is 'don't leave me here alone'.

But she had left her brother anyways…

"You seem in a far off world tonight?" Peter Barlow's hand reach across the table giving Carla's a tight squeeze. She was awakened from her trance immediately, "Penny for your thoughts?"

There were so many thoughts spinning her head at the moment and no way to conceptualize a thing. The nostalgia had hit her; like it always does in the moments you realize your own mortality. She had stared into Nick Tilsley's eyes for what seemed like hours, lifeless and fleeting…a feeling of impending and unrelenting doom. She had shuddered as Peter, good old reliable Peter threw the body into a shallow grave in a field picked at random. As the dirt piled up and the body slowly disappeared under mounds of dirt, Carla felt her air source cutting off like her actions and decisions where slowly in and trapping her. What had she done? Was this the sort of person she had become, the sort that resorted to animalistic killings of human beings just to protect her own secrets?

Peter had taught her that there was a value in having secrets. In his opinion it helped one to become a chameleon, a sort of faceless man. You had more power this way because no one would no which of you they met was the real you. That's how con game worked, that's how things were when surviving was a must.

"_We are nothing more or less than what we choose to reveal to other people Carla," he told her the first time he taught her how to aim a gun, "We wouldn't be who we are without them…secrets are like amour. They can either protect you or trap you. It's your choice but don't ever give anyone the chance of an upper hand. Don't ever let anyone think they are doing you a favor or that they are giving you a chance to set yourself free. Nothing is for free and everyone will name his or her price. If you can't pay it, then just remember this—"_

"—_What?"_

"_Anyone can be killed so just go on and kill the man and be done with it. Then voilà… secrets safe because everyone knows that two can't keep a secret unless one of them is—" _

"—dead," he had been talking for quite sometime only Carla had missed most of his words letting the conversation fly past her in worry over Nick Tilsley.

"What?" she snapped out of trance grasping at the coffee mug sitting between them. Raising it slowly she clutched it to her lips taking a few complimentary sips, trying to be as normal as possible, but the heat against her skin brought back all the unpleasant feelings from the night before. She could still feel the heat of the fire, and taste the aroma of smoke. Carla still couldn't shake the image of Peter throwing Inspector Nick Tilsley's clothing into the burning bonfire. Peter had destroyed all his identification too.

"I said you don't have to worry. He's dead now and the secret dies with him. Who ever this Gloria De Whitney girl is, she disappeared with out a trace years ago. So what if he thought he found her. People found can disappear just as easily all over again."

"I'm scared Peter," Carla croaked. It was the morning after now. The pair hadn't been able to get any sleep. They had to bury a body and erase any and all evidence of the crime. By the time Peter had finished it was like Nick Tilsley just evaporated from Rome into the night. "What if someone finds out about the De Whitney connections—the Italian hotel—the shoot out—and all the paper trails. What about the yacht and Monaco?" lowering her voice Carla uttered in a hushed tone across the table, "I killed a man."

"Two men," Peter smirked, "you've killed two men now."

"You're not helping," Carla glared moodily. Peter had a way of being blasé about most things but in no way shape or form was it acceptable to be blasé about this. She had spent the whole dawn sitting in his convertible, in the field where Nick Tilsley now lay underneath the sky recounting months upon months of her and Michelle's past deeds.

When the cafes finally opened they had a change venue but the stories still continued on pouring out of Carla's heart so fast it made her truly vulnerable. Usually she was the strong one, she had to be when it came to Michelle. The difference between how she handled Nick's murder versus Tony's was night and day. Where with Tony, Carla had to pull the reigns together and take charge while Michelle took on the role of a helpless and pitiful child; Carla felt herself in the child position with Peter. He was her 'everyman' after all and as much as they had a history as lovers and friends, Carla looked up to him as a fatherly protector as well.

"Hey look," Peter smirked yet again, "Two people is nothing. I've killed about 70—"

"—That's a bunch of hogwash and stories," Carla interjected.

"No it isn't," he motioned for a refill on the coffee, "I've killed around 70 not accounting for the 20 I killed yesterday in the Italian police station just to save your ass."

Carla had to shut up then. There was a glint in his eyes, a strange and powerful hold every once and a while that came over his face. It always exhilarated Carla, fascinated her even, because there was something within him was that so changeable and veering on crazy, she knew Peter Barlow wasn't lying when he said he killed many men. He was a mad man and a bad man and he was dangerous to know. It was sort of flattering to know all the great lengths he go through just to protect her.

"I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come from Spain," Carla finally said meekly glancing up appreciatively from over the rim of her steaming coffee cup. Only now had she notice the glorious tan her lovable rouge conman was sporting. He looked so utterly gorgeous and it pained her.

Sometimes Carla got in such states where she regretted ever drawing the line of friendship between them because from where she was sitting now there was an uncontrollable urge to use his body like a jungle gym, not that she'd ever tell him that. For all the things Carla told him there were many things she didn't.

Like in the days before she ran away from home, Carla would sneak newspaper clippings of the man who should have disgusted her (as she so often told Rob). Finding suitable pictures, Carla would hide them in her bra. Folded in between the intimate parts of skin and fabric, Peter Barlow always had a special place next to her heart. He was a brute and an apparent murdering outlaw with no manners but that was no matter. The fascination that Rob held was contagious and it scared Carla because Peter seemed to be on the surface like just the sort of low life scumbags her mum brought into the home. It was like she was fulfilling the words her mom always shouted in drunken hazes that she too would be drawn in hook line and sinker, by some good for nothing loser just like her father.

Carla shuddered to think she could ever share anything in common with her mother outside of looks and most especially such horrible taste in men. But from an early age she knew that the only people who interested her in life were the mad sort. Not 'mad' like how Rob put it, crazy for all the wrong reasons; but the ones who were crazy about the world around them, desirous to live, never a dull moment, or even two pennies to squeeze between them but it didn't matter. Everyday was different and nothing ever the same even in the moments when it should be. Because that's not how things were when you lived mad, mad to be different, mad to make your own way in the world. This was how she saw Peter Barlow and this is how she decided she must live.

Carla left in the night a few months later. She left Rob; she left her mom, forsaking everything and everyone to go chasing after a mad world. She hadn't known it at the time; maybe it was because the newspaper clippings made him look different. The man had such a chameleon look about him, but Carla had met her mad man, Peter Barlow almost instantly. He gave her place to stay and a sense of family she had never had before. Always under his protection, Carla craved his attention and all the silly ramblings about Peter being just a human being faded away. He was much more.

It was strange for all the things shared between them that she could never bring herself to tell Peter of her little girl crush. But she never said much about the past, never even mentioned Rob more than she had to. Peter was much the same actually. For all the vulnerability the stories shared between the friends usually involved figuring out how to cover up murders and get out of sticky situations. Carla didn't even know all there was to know about her best friend Michelle's past life. Only that she was rich and had two brothers, but Carla didn't even know names and honestly she had never bothered to ask.

"You're lucky I did do all that stuff for you," Peter said staring Carla down sternly from across the table, "because if giving the opportunity I would not do it again," he let the shock sink into Carla's face before slapping the table in infectious laughter, pulling her leg yet again as he said, "should've seeing your face there for a second…I'm joking of course. You don't have a very poker face."

"That's not funny Peter," Carla glared, "I'm very fragile at the moment."

"Nonsense," he snapped his fingers rising from is chair and draping his jacket over the shoulder, "you're just must edgy," walking over to Carla he pulled her chair out like a gentleman, "it happens sometimes as the body count gets higher. People start getting afraid of their own shadows," grasping her by the elbow he cautioned with the rise of a finger, "but don't you dare start getting soft on me. Remember what I taught you about secrets—"

"—I remember," Carla took a deep gulp trying to balance her jelly like legs. She was getting more and more antsy and fragile by the second just ready to break at the seams. Her spirits were so low and that of fatigue, she just wanted to get the hell out of here and out of Rome once and for all, "just get me out of here Peter," she pleaded like a child.

"Of course baby."

He drove fast. In the passenger set of an open top car, Carla took in the countryside. With Peter at her side all her problems just seemed to melt away. Carla knew he was taking her to see Michelle and that soon afterwards they could kiss Rome goodbye. Sleep was creeping up on her, with the breeze sweeping through her hair she gave Peter an appreciative smile. Grasping across the seat she linked her fingers with his. It seemed just like old times then, like how they used to.

"Thank you," she glowed taking in his dapper looks. Peter looked so suave and so cool. Again Carla's heart fluttered and it pained her. So much nostalgia over these past few and very hectic hours of panic in which it was easy to lose oneself made her wish they could go back to simpler times; her, Michelle, and Peter, "I love you," she said groggily.

_When somebody said 'I love you' what they really meant to say but are too afraid is 'don't leave me here alone'._

" I love you too... always," he whispered grinning at her fluttery eyes struggling to stay open.

Before she relented to sleep Carla had to add one more thing, her vulnerability shinning through as it always did with him. She couldn't bear another separation like Spain again. Even though she knew he'd always come back Carla couldn't let her Peter stray, " You won't go letting yourself get lost again, will you? Promise you won't leave me all alone."

He smiled those brown eyes unreadable as he, "Go to sleep Carla. I'll wake you when we get there…"

Carla woke up in Peter's muscular and strong arms just as he was carrying her through the door of a tiny little Italian cottage. God knows how Peter had time to find a place like it to stay so quickly but Carla's anxiety cleared considerably seeing it wasn't another hotel. The aroma of Italian cooking quickly filled the air giving it a homey feeling instantly.

"An Italian associate of mine let me use it," Peter gave as explanation almost banging Carla's head against the doorframe, "His mother lives in the bigger house across the pathway. It should do for your tastes I hope," he winked.

Carla felt all jittery with butterflies enjoying the banter and rapport between them. "Absolutely," she giggled, " Not that we need a Palace…I'm sure the Italian Police cleared out our hotel room, so there is nothing to put in this hovel. Now put me down before I bang my head."

Putting her down gently, Carla collapsed into Peter's arms for a brief moment. She could have kissed him them, she would have gladly and had no regrets if not for this…

"Peter?" a voice unfamiliar to Carla called from the doorway behind them, "Peter you're back."

Carla let go of Peter immediately, spinning out of his space coming face to face with a beautiful blonde girl of medium build and height. She was wearing a knee length yellow cotton dress; her feet were out bare and exposed. Taking the last drags from a cigarette and then letting the smoke escape from her lips in the most sultry of manners, she put it out on the doorframe before walking smoothly across the tile floor towards them. Her brown eyes, Carla noticed were Inquisitive but rather friendly as she made her way over to Peter.

"Your friend?" Carla asked glancing back a Peter and then the woman again. She presumed the woman to be one of his contacts. Perhaps a new partner in some venture he had yet to explain.

"No actually…" Peter was looking nervously at the woman, his face flushed a bit in some sort of spellbound trance. He had looked at Carla like that once and now he was looking at _**her **_as such.

Watching as Peter but her arms around the woman in an affectionate hug, running his fingers through the top of her hair, before laying a gentle kiss on the forehead left Carla in a state of shock. She saw him sneakily reach into his pant pocket and retrieve a wedding band. Slipping it on discreetly from behind as he held the woman by her back, Carla stared at her mentor and former lover with a sense of utter betrayal. She assumed Peter must have taken it off before coming to rescue her and she didn't know what made her more sick; the fact that Peter had hid this information from her or the fact that he was acting completely innocent about the whole thing like it was nothing big to keep from someone who he said was his greatest friend.

"Hello," she said warmly breaking away from Peter who was now brazenly making eye contact warning Carla not to make a scene. Offering a hand she said, " You must be Carla. I've heard a lot about you. I'm Leanne, Peter's wife."

There it was the dreaded word. It was a word Peter once swore adamantly against ever in relation to any woman because he liked to make it clear that marriage was not for him. Carla had wanted to be his wife once, but she remembered how he gave her a dreaded story and lecture and story about why such a thing would never work for him.

The bile was rising in her throat and before she could stop herself Carla uttered, "You have a wife Peter?" She felt ready to cry.

Peter must have sensed this as he quickly broke the tension. Looking to distract Leanne from any sign of awkwardness, he quickly sent her from the room telling her to go and tell Michelle that Carla had finally arrived. After smiling at Carla, she left the room, oblivious to any of high running emotions around here leaving two people with a complicated history to their own devices.

"Look—," he started.

"—you didn't mention you have a wife, " Carla's tongue was bitter.

"Nothing should ever come between us," he said almost passionately. He was sending a bunch of mixed messages like always. For all the things she loved about Peter Barlow she hated his indecisiveness most.

"Except the small matter of a _**wife**_," Carla was shooting daggers. Who the hell did he think he was? Even more so, what did she mean to him? What would this marriage mean for Carla's life. There was a reason why it hurt to love him so much because the feelings were never returned in the way Carla wanted them to be, "You were supposed to love me, weren't you?" her voice was a whisper almost ready to croak.

"And I do. We're soul mates…you know that."

"My God Peter!" Carla whispered warning him not to go there. No way in hell was he gonna weasel his way out of this one, "When were you going to tell me? It's not like a wedding is just some story you forget to tell your supposed best friend in passing? Did my invitation get lost in the mail?"

"A lot was going on," he said weakly, "And it all happened so fast anyways. I get caught up in the moment sometimes, you know that."

"Oh how romantic," Carla sneered," she could hear footsteps approaching, "that will make for a great story to tell the kids someday!"

"I'm not the fathering sort," he was missing the point completely.

"Stop talking about me," Leanne said once again standing in the doorway this time with Michelle peaking over her shoulder desperate to get in on the inevitable sparring. It was a joke but Carla didn't care.

"How did you two meet anyways?" she glared at the woman Leanne.

"It's an interesting story—," she said obviously unable to pick up on the normal social cues that she didn't detect the loathing in Carla's voice.

"—No save it," Carla almost laughed it was obvious this girl or whatever the hell she was needed the sarcasm spelled out for her, "It's obvious not a tale meant for my ears. If it were, dear Peter here would have already told me so spare me the details. The only stories we share are the light stuff. You know, murder plots buried bodies, yachts being cleaned and robberies? Nothing big…yours is a story obviously only meant for friends."

Walking across the tile floor, Carla reveled in the stupid look smeared across the silly Leanne's face. He thought her Peter was a catch but if only she had heard the shit he was spewing about soul mates the first chance he got when she left. Carla was over this. The betrayal was just too much. Shoving past Leanne and out into the hall, avoiding contact with Michelle even, Carla rushed towards the nearest room she could find.

Before she had asked Peter not to get himself lost ever again but now that's all she wanted was for the bastard to get lost in his bullshit and disappear. Her brother Rob had idolized the man so much once, wherever he was now he probably still did. Carla wished there was some way to tell him that the real man, the real Peter Barlow wasn't all he was talked up to be. It was the jealousy and anger talking but Carla felt like in this moment that her life was completely wasted. She had thrown it all away to go chasing after a bunch of stories she read in newspaper clippings as a young girl and for what? She had just figured out something she had known all along…

"…_they are just stories, Rob…"_

She could cry herself to sleep now at the disappointment of knowing Peter had truly for the first time ever let her down betraying their friendship and her trust. Here today he had displayed the first signs that he wasn't and would never be the man she had always wanted him to be. After all the smoke and mirrors and the euphoria wore off he was just a bunch of fanciful stories.


End file.
